Book - T 



DISCOURSES 



ON 



VARIOUS SUBJECTS, 



BY 



REV. ORVILLE DEWEY. 

SECOND EDITION. 

NEW YORK I 
DAVID FELT & CO. STATIONERS' HALL, 

1835. 



Entered, according to an Act of Congress, in the year 1835, 
by David Felt, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of 
the Southern District of New- York. 



Printed at stationers' hall press. 



TO THE FIRST CHURCH AND CONGREGATION IN 
NEW BEDFORD, 
THESE DISCOURSES, 
ORIGINALLY PREPARED FOR THEIR BENEFIT, 
ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED, 
BY THEIR 

LATE PASTOR AND EVER OBLIGED FRIEND, 

THE AUTHOR* 



CONTENTS, 



L 
II. 

III. 



ON HUMAN NATURE, 

» ON THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES TO HUMAN 
I NATURE. 



) ON THE ADAPTATION WHICH RELIGION, TO BE 
IV. > TRUE AND USEFUL, SHOULD HAVE TO HUMAN 
1 NATURE. 



V. THE APPEAL OP RELIGION TO HUMAN MATURE. 

SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME, 



VI. 
VII. 



VIII. 
IX. 

X. 

XI. . 

XII. 
XIII. 



ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY, 



ON RELIGIOUS INDIFFERENCE. 



ON RETRIBUTION. 
XIV. ON DELAY IN RELIGION 

XV 

XVI. COMPASSION FOR THE SINFUL 



ARGUMENTS FOR RENEWED DILIGENCE IN RE* 
LIGION. 



XVII } G ° D S LOYE ' THE CHIEF RESTRAINT FROM SIN, 
) AND RESOURCE IN SORROW. 

XVIII, TiiE VOICES OF THE DEAB. 



PREFACE 



Cut off by ill health from a pastoral connection most interest, 
mg to him, the Author of the following Discourses was desirous 
of leaving among the people of his late charge, some permanent 
record of the interest he has taken in them, of the words he has 
spoken to them, and of the satisfaction with which he has met 
them, from Sabbath to Sabbath, to meditate on the great themes 
of religion— a satisfaction, let him add, not marred by one mo* 
ment's disagreement, nor by the altered eye of one individual, 
during the ten year's continuance of that most delicate and 
affecting relationship. Circumstances, he has thought, may jus- 
tify a publication of this nature- — friendship and kindness may 
give it value and utility in their limited circle, though it may 
not be destined to excite any interest in a wider sphere ; and he 
ventures, therefore, to hope, that this volume may not be entirely 
useless nor uninteresting to that portion of the religious com-, 
munity generally, with which he has the happiness to be per- 
sonally acquainted. To his friends — and he cannot deny him- 
self the pleasure of including the few that he claims to be of 
that number in England— -he offers this collection of Dis- 
courses, with as much anxiety as he ought, perhaps, to feel 
for any human opinion, but with an equal reliance on their * 
candour and kindness. 



New- York, Feb. 24, 1835. 



DISCOURSE I. 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



PSALM VIII. 4. 5. What is man, that thou art mindful 
op him] and the son of man that thou yisitest him ! 
For thou hast made him a little lower than the 
angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor 

You will observe, my brethren, that in these words, 
two distinct, and in a degree, opposite views are 
given, of human nature. It is represented, on the one 
hand, as weak and low, and yet on the other, as lofty 
and strong. At one moment it presents itself to the 
inspired writer as poor, humble, depressed, and almost 
unworthy of the notice of its Maker. But in the tran- 
sition of a single sentence, we find him contemplating 
this same being, man, as exalted, glorious, and almost 
angelic. "When I consider thy heavens, the work of 
thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast 
ordained," he says, "what is man that thou art mind- 
ful of him?" And yet, he adds, "thou hast made him, 
a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him 
with glory and honor." 

But do not these contrasted statements make up, 
in fact, the only true view of human nature ? Are they 
not conformable to the universal sense of mankind, 
and to the whole tenor and spirit of our religion? 



10 



DISCOURSE I. 



Whenever the human character is pourtrayed in 
colors altogether dark, or altogether bright; when- 
ever the misanthrope pours out his scorn upon the 
wickedness and baseness of mankind, or the enthu- 
siast lavishes his admiration upon their virtues, do we 
not always feel that there needs to be some qualifica- 
tion ; that there is something to be said on the other 
side? 

Nay more ; do not all the varying representations 
of human nature imply their opposites? Does not 
virtue — according to our idea of it, according to the 
universal idea of it, according to the scriptural repre- 
sentation of it, — imply, that sins and sinful passions 
are struggled with, and overcome? And, on the con- 
trary, does not sin in its very nature, imply that there 
are high and sacred powers, capacities, and affections, 
which it violates ? 

In this view it appears to me, that all unqualified 
disparagement, as well as praise, of human nature, car- 
ries with it, its own refutation; and it is to this point 
that I wish to invite your particular attention in the 
following discourse. Admitting all that can be asked 
on this subject by the strongest assertors of human 
depravity: admitting every thing, certainly, that can be 
stated as a matter of fact ; admitting that men are as 
bad as they are said to be, and substantially believing 
it too, I shall argue that the conclusion to be drawn is 
entirely the reverse of that which usually is drawn. I 
shall argue, that the most strenuous, the most earnest 
and indignant, objections against human nature imply 
the strongest concessions to its constitutional worth. 
I say then, and repeat, that objection here carries with 
it, its own refutation ; that the objector concedes 



DISCOURSE I. 



much, very much, to human nature, by the very terms 
with which he inveighs against it. 

It is not my sole purpose, however, to present any 
abstract or polemic argument. Rather let me attempt 
to offer some general and just views of human nature ; 
and for this purpose rather than for the sake of contro- 
versy, let me pass in brief review before you, some of 
the specific and disparaging opinions, that have pre- 
vailed in the world concerning it — those for instance, 
of the philosopher, and the theologian. 

In doing this, my purpose is, to admit that much of 
what they say, is true ; but to draw from it an infer- 
ence quite different from theirs. I would admit on one 
hand, that there is much evil in the human heart, but 
at" the same time, I wo ! ild balance this view, and 
blend it with others that claim to be brought into the 
account. On the one hand, I would admit and enforce 
the objection of much and mournful evil in the world; 
but, on the other, I would prevent it from pressing on 
the heart, as a discouraging and dead weight of repro- 
bation and obloquy. 

It may appear to you that the opinions which I have 
selected for our present consideration are, each of 
them, brought into strange company; and yet they 
have an affinity which may not at once be suspected. 
It is singular indeed, that we find in the same ranks 
and waging the same war against all human self- 
respect, the most opposite descriptions of persons; the 
most religious with the most irreligious, the most cre- 
dulous with the most sceptical. If any man supposes 
that it is his superior goodness or purer faith, which 
leads him to think so badly of his fellow-men and of 
their very nature, he needs to be reminded that vicious 



12 



DISCOURSE I* 



and dissolute habits almost invariably and unerringly 
lead to the same result. The man who is taking the 
downward way, with almost every step you will find, 
thinks worse of his nature and his species ; till he con- 
cludes, if he can, that he was made only for sensual 
indulgence, and that all idea of a future, intellectual, 
and immortal existence, is a dream. And so if 
any man thinks that it is owing to his spirituality 
and heavenly mindedness, that he pronounces the 
world so utterly corrupt, a mere mass of selfish- 
ness and deceit; he may be admonished, that no- 
body so thoroughly agrees with him as the man of 
the world, the shrewd, over-reaching, and knavish 
practicer on the weakness or the wickedness of his 
fellows. And in the same way, the strict and high- 
toned theologian, as he calls himself, may unexpectedly 
find himself in company with the sceptical and scorn- 
ful philosopher. No men have ever more bitterly 
decried and vilified human nature, than the Infidel 
philosophers of the last century. They contended 
that man was too mean and contemptible a creature, 
to be the subject of such an interposition as that 
recorded in the Gospel, 

I. But I am to take up in the first place, and more 
in detail, the objection of the sceptical philosopher. 

The philosopher says, that man is a mean creature ; 
not so much a degraded being, as he is originally, a 
poor insignificant creature \ an animal, some grades 
above others perhaps, but still an animal ; for whom, 
to suppose the provision of infinite mercy and of im- 
mortality to be made, is absurd. 

It is worth noticing, as we pass, and I therefore 
remark, the striking connection which is almost always 



DISCOURSE I, 



13 



found, between different parts of every man's belief 
or skepticism. I never knew one to think wrongly 
about God, but he very soon began to think wrongly 
about man : or else the reverse is the process, and it 
is not material, which. The things always go together. 
He who conceives of the Almighty as a severe, un- 
just and vindictive being, will regard man as a slave, 
will make him the slave of superstition, will take a sort 
of superstitious pleasure or merit in magnifying his 
wickednesss or unworthiness. And he who thinks 
meanly of human nature, will think coldly and dis- 
trustfully of the Supreme Being, will think of him as 
withdrawing himself to a sublime distance from such 
a nature. In other words, he who does not take the 
Christian view, and has no apprehension of the infinite 
iove of God, will not believe that he has made man 
with such noble faculties, or for such noble ends, as 
we assert. The discussion proposed is obviously, 
even in this view, one of no trifling importance. 

Let us, then, proceed to the objection of our philo- 
sopher. He says, I repeat, that man is a mean crea- 
ture, fit only for the earth on which he is placed, fit 
for no higher destination than to be buried in its 
bosom, and there to find his end. The philosopher 
rejects what he calls the theologian's dream, about 
the fall. He says that man needed no fall in order to 
be a degraded creature ; that he is, and was, always 
and originally, a degraded creature ; a being not fallen 
from virtue, but incapable of virtue ; a being, not cor- 
rupted from his innocence, but one who never pos- 
sessed innocence ; a being never of heaven, but a 
being only of earth, and sense, and appetite, and 
never fit for any thing better. 

2 



14 



DISCOURSE I. 



Now let us go at once to the main point in argu- 
ment, which is proposed to be illustrated in this dis- 
course. What need, I ask, of speaking of human 
debasement, in such indignant or sneering tones, if it 
is the real and only nature of man ? There is nothing 
to blame or scorn in man, if he is naturally such a poor 
and insignificant creature. If he was made only for 
the senses and appetites, what occasion, I pray, for 
any wonder or abuse, that he is sensual and debased ? 
Why waste invectives on such a being ? The truth is, 
that this zealous depreciation of human nature betrays 
a consciousness, that it is not so utterly worthless, 
after all. It is no sufficient reply to say, that this 
philosophic scorn has been aroused by the extrava- 
gance of human pretensions. For if these pretensions 
were utterly groundless, if the being who aspired to 
virtue were fit only for sensation, or if the being whose 
thoughts swelled to the great hope of immortality, 
were only a higher species of the animal creation, 
and must share its fate — if this were true, his preten- 
sions could justly create only a feeling of wonder, or 
of sadness. 

We might say much to rebut the charge of the phi- 
losopher ; so injurious to the soul, so fatal to all just 
self-respect, so fatal to all elevated virtue and devo- 
tion. We might say that the most ordinary tastes and 
the most trifling pursuits of man carry, to the obser- 
vant eye, marks of the nobler mind. We might say 
that vain trifling, and that fleeting, dying pleasure, 
does not satisfy the immortal want ; and that toil does 
not crush the soul, that the body cannot weigh down 
the spirit to its own drudgery. We might ask our 
proud reasoner, moreover whence the moral and 



DISCOURSE I. 



15 



metaphysical philosopher obtains the facts with which 
he speculates, and argues, and builds up his admira- 
ble theory ? And our skeptic must answer, that the 
metaphysical and moral philosopher goes to human 
nature ; that he goes to it in its very attitudes of toil 
and its free actings of passion, and thence takes his 
materials and his form, and his living charm of repre- 
sentation, which delight the world. We might say 
still more. We might say that all there is of vastness 
and grandeur and beauty in the world, lies in the 
conception of man ; that the immensity of the uni- 
verse, as we term it, is but the reach of his imagina- 
tion — that immensity in other words is but the image 
of his own idea ; that there is no eternity to him, but 
that which exists in his own unbounded thought ; that 
there is no God to man, but what has been conceived 
of in his own capacious and unmeasured under- 
standing. 

These things we might say ; but I will rather meet 
the objector on his own ground, confident that, I may 
triumph even there. I take up the indignant argu- 
ment, then. I allow that there is much weight and 
truth in it, though it brings me to a different conclusion. 
I feel that man is, in many respects and in many situ- 
ations, and above all, compared with what he should 
be, that man is a mean creature. I feel it, as I should, 
if I saw some youth of splendid talents and promise 
plunging in, at the door of vice and infamy. Yes, it 
is meanness, for a man— who stands in the presence 
of his God and among the sons of heaven — it is 
meanness in him to play the humble part of sycophant 
before his fellows— to fawn and flatter, to make his 
very soul a slave, barely to gain from that fellow man 



16 



DISCOURSE I. 



his smile, his nod, his hand — his favour, his vote, his 
patronage. It is meanness for a man — to prevaricate 
and falsify, to sell his conscience for advantage, to 
barter his soul for gain, to give his noble brow to the 
smiting blush of shame, or his cheek to the deadly 
paleness of convicted dishonesty. Yes, it is a degra- 
dation unutterable, for a man to steep his soul in gross, 
sensual, besotting indulgence ; to live for this, and in 
this one, poor, low sensation to shut up the mind with 
all its boundless range ; to sink to a debasement more 
than beastly ; below where an animal can go. Yes, 
all this, and much beside this is meanness ; but why, 
now I ask — why do we speak of it thus, unless it is 
because we speak of a being w T ho might have put on 
such a nobility of soul, and such a loftiness and in- 
dependence, and spiritual beauty, and glory, as would 
fling rebuke upon all the hosts of sin and temptation, 
and cast dimness upon all the splendour of the world ? 

It may be proper under the head of philosophical 
objections to take notice of the celebrated maxim of 
Rochefoucauld ; since it is among the written, and 
has as good a title as others, to be among the philo- 
sophic objections. This maxim is, that we take a sort 
of pleasure in the disappointments and miseries of 
others, and are pained at their good fortune and suc- 
cess. If this maxim were intended to fix upon man- 
kind the charge of pure, absolute, disinterested malig- 
nity, and if it could be sustained, it would be fatal to 
my argument. If I believed this, I should believe not 
only in total, but in diabolical depravity. And, I am 
aware, that the apologists for human nature, receiving 
the maxim in this light, have usually contented them- 
selves with indignantly denying its truth. I shall, how- 



DISCOURSE I. 17 

ever, for myself take different ground. I suppose, 
and I admit, that the maxim is true, to a certain ex- 
tent. Yet I deny that the feelings on which it is 
founded, are malignant. They may be selfish, they 
may be bad ; but they are not malicious and diaboli- 
cal. But let us explain. It should be premised, that 
there is nothing wrong in our desiring the goods and 
advantages of life, provided the desire be kept within 
proper bounds. Suppose, then that you are pursuing 
the same object with your neighbour, — a situation, an 
office, for instance, and suppose that he succeeds. 
His success, at the first disclosure of it to you, will, 
of course, give you a degree of pain; and for this 
reason : it immediately brings the sense of your own 
disappointment. Now it is not wrong perhaps, that 
you do regret your own failure ; it is probably una- 
voidable that you should. You feel perhaps that you 
need, or deserve the appointment, more than your 
rival. You cannot help, therefore, on every account, 
regretting that he has obtained it. It does not follow 
that you wish him any less happy. You may make 
the distinction in your own mind. You may say — " I 
am glad he is happy ; but I am sorry he has the place ; 
I wish he could be as happy in some other situation." 
Now, all this, so far from being malignant, is scarcely 
selfish ; and even when the feeling, in a very bad 
mind, is altogether selfish, yet it is very different from 
a malignant pain, at another's good fortune. But now, 
let us extend the case a little, from immediate rival- 
ship, to that general competition of interests, which 
exists in society — a competition which the selfishness 
of men makes to be far more than is necessary, and 
conceives to be far greater than it is, There is an 

8* 



18 



DISCOURSE I. 



erroneous idea, or imagination, shall I call it — and 
certainly it is one of the moral delusions of the world, 
that something gained by another, is something lost 
to one's self : and hence the feeling, before described, 
may arise at almost any indifferent instance of good 
fortune. But it always rises in this proportion : — it is 
stronger, the nearer the case comes to direct compe- 
tition. You do not envy a rich man in China, nor a 
great man in Tartary. But if envy, as it has been 
sometimes called, were pure malignity, a man should 
be sorry that any body is happy, that any body is for- 
tunate or honoured in the world. But this is not true ; 
it does not apply to human nature. If you ever feel 
pain at the successes or acquisitions of another, it is 
when they come into comparison or contrast w r ith 
your own failures or deficiencies. You feel that those 
successes or acquisitions might have been your own ; 
you regret, and perhaps rightly, that they are not ; 
and then, you insensibly slide into the very wrong 
feeling of regret, that they belong to another. This 
is envy ; and it is sufficiently base ; but it is not purely 
malicious, and it is, in fact, the perversion of a feeling, 
originally capable of good and valuable uses. 

But I must pursue the skeptical philosopher a step 
farther — into actual life. The term, philosopher, may 
seem to be but ill applied here ; but we have probably, 
all of us known or heard those, who, pretending to 
have a considerable kno wledge of the world, if not much 
other knowledge, take upon them with quite an air 
of philosophic superiority, to pronounce human nature 
nothing but a mass of selfishness ; and to say, that 
this mass, whenever it is refined, is only refined into 
luxury and licentiousness, duplicity and knavery. 



DISCOURSE I. 



19 



Some simple souls they suppose there may be in the 
retired corners of the earth, that are walking in the 
chains of mechanical habit or superstitious piety, 
who have not the knowledge to understand, nor the 
courage to seek, what they want. But the moment 
they do act freely, they act, says our objector, upon 
the selfish principle. And this he maintains, is the 
principle, which, in fact, governs the world. Nay 
more, he avers, that it is the only reasonable and suffi- 
cient principle of action ; and freely confesses that 
it is his own. 

Let me ask you here to keep distinctly in view the 
ground, w T hich the objector now assumes. There are 
talkers against human virtue, who never think how- 
ever of going to this length ; men in fact, who are u 
great deal better than their theory ; whose example, 
indeed, refutes their theory. But there are worse 
objectors, and worse men ; vicious and corrupt men ; 
sensualists : sensualists in philosophy, and in practice 
alike ; who would gladly believe all the rest of the 
world as bad as themselves. And these are objectors, 
I say, who like the objections before stated, refute 
themselves. 

For who is this small philosopher, that smiles, either 
at the simplicity of all honest men, or at the simplicity 
of all honest defenders of them? He is, in the first 
place, a man who stands up before us, and has the face 
to boast, that he is himself without principle. No doubt, 
he thinks other men as bad as himself. A man neces- 
sarily, perhaps, judges the actions of other men by his 
own feelings. He has no other interpreter. The 
honest man, therefore, will often presume honesty in 
another ; and the generous man, generosity. And so 



20 



DISCOURSE I. 



the selfish man can see nothing around him but selfish- 
ness; and the knave, nothing but dishonesty; and he 
who never felt any thing of a generous and self-devot- 
ing piety, who never bowed down in that holy and 
blessed worship, can see in prayer nothing but the 
offering of selfish fear, — in piety, nothing but a slavish 
superstition. 

In the next place; this sneerer at all virtue and 
piety, not only imagines others to be as destitute of 
principle as himself, but, to some extent, he makes 
them such, or makes them seem such. His eye of 
pride chills every goodly thing it looks upon. His 
breath of scorn blights every generous virtue where it 
comes. His supple and crafty hand puts all men upon 
their guard. They become like himself, for the time ; 
they become more crafty while they deal with him. 
How shall any noble aspiration, any high and pure 
thoughts, any benevolent purposes, any sacred and 
holy communing, venture into the presence of the 
proud and selfish scorner of all goodness ! It has been 
said, that the letters your friends write to you, will 
show their opinion of your temper and tastes. Ana 
so it is, to a certain extent, with conversation. 

But in the third pla.ce ; where, let us ask, has this 
man studied human nature? Lord Chesterfield ob- 
serves — and the observation is worthy of a man who 
never seems to have looked beneath the surface of any 
thing — that the Court and the Camp are the places, in 
which a knowledge of mankind is to be gained. And 
we may remark, that it is from two fields not alto- 
gether dissimilar, that our skeptic about virtue always 
gains his knowledge of mankind: I mean, from fashion 
and business ; the two most artificial spheres of active 



DISCOURSE I. 



21 



life. Our objector has witnessed heartless civilities, 
and imagines that he is acquainted with the deep foun- 
tains of human nature. Or, he has been out into the 
paths of business, and seen men girt up for competi- 
tion, and acting in that artificial state of things which 
trade produces; and he imagines that he has witnessed 
the free and unsophisticated workings of the human 
heart; he supposes that the laws of trade, are also the 
laws of human affection. He thinks himself deeply 
read in the book of the human heart, that unfathom- 
able mystery, because he is acquainted with notes and 
bonds, with cards and compliments. 

How completely, then, is this man disqualified from 
judging of human nature ! There is a power, which 
few possess, which none have attained in perfection; 
a power to unlock the retired, the deeper, and nobler 
sensibilities of men's minds, to draw out the hoarded 
and hidden virtues of the soul, to open the fountains 
which custom and ceremony and reserve have sealed 
up: it is a power, I repeat, which few 7 possess — how 
evidently does our objector possess it not — and yet 
without some portion of which, no man should think 
himself qualified to study human nature. Men know 
but little of each other, after all; but little know how 7 
many good and tender affections are suppressed and 
kept out of sight, by diffidence, by delicacy, by the fear 
of appearing awkward or ostentatious, by habits of 
life, by education, by sensitiveness, and even by strong 
sensibility, that sometimes puts on a hard and rough 
exterior for its own check or protection. And the 
power that penetrates all these barriers, must be an 
extraordinary one. There must belong to it charity, 
and kindness, and forbearance, and sagacity, and fideli- 



22 



DISCOURSE I. 



ty to the trust which the opening heart reposes in it 
But how peculiarly, I repeat, how T totally devoid of this 
power of opening and unfolding the real character of 
his fellows, must be the scoffer at human nature ! 

I have said that this man gathers his conclusions 
from the most formal and artificial aspects of the 
world. He never could have drawn them from the 
holy retreats of domestic life — to say nothing of those 
deeper privacies of the heart of which I have just 
been speaking; — he never could have drawn his con- 
clusions from those family scenes, where unnumbered, 
nameless, minute, and indescribable sacrifices are daily 
made, by thousands and ten thousands all around us ; 
he never could have drawn them, from the self-devot- 
ing mother's cares, or from the grateful return, the 
lovely assiduity and tenderness of filial affection; he 
never could have derived his contemptuous inference, 
from the sick-room, where friendship, in silent prayer, 
watches and tends its charge. No : he dare not go 
out from our dwellings, from our temples, from our 
hospitals,— he dare not tread upon the holy places of 
the land, the high places, where the devout have 
prayed, and the brave have died; and proclaim, that, 
patriotism is a visionary sentiment, and piety, a selfish 
delusion, and charity, a pretence, and virtue, a name ! 

II. But it is time that we come now, to the objection 
of the Theologian. And I go at once to the single and 
strong point of his objection. The Theologian says 
that human nature is bad and corrupt. Now, taking 
this language in the practical and popular sense, I find 
no difficulty in agreeing with the Theologian. And, 
indeed, if he would confine himself— leaving vague 
and general declamation and technical phraseology— 



DISCOURSE I. 



23 



if he would confine himself to facts ; — if he would con 
fine himself to a description of actual bad qualities and 
dispositions in men, I think he could not well go too 
far. Nay more, I am not certain that any Theologian's 
description so far as it is of this nature, has gone deep 
enough into the frightful mass of human depravity. 
For it requires an acute perception, that is rarely pos- 
sessed, and a higher and holier conscience, perhaps, 
than belongs to any, to discover, and to declare how 
bad, and degraded and unworthy a being, a bad man 
is. I confess that nothing would beget in me a highei 
respect for a man, than a real — not a theological and 
factitious — but a real and deep sense of human sinful- 
ness and unworthiness; of the mighty wrong which 
man does to himself, to his religion and to his God, 
when he yields to the evil and accursed inclinations 
that find place in him. This moral indignation is not 
half strong enough in those who profess to talk the 
most about human depravity. And the objection to 
them is, not that they feel too much or speak too 
strongly, about the actual wickedness, the actual and 
distinct sins of the wicked ; but they speak too gene- 
rally and vaguely of human wickedness, that they 
speak with too little discrimination to every man as if 
he were a murderer or a monster, that they speak in 
fine too argumentatively, and too much if I may say 
so, with a sort of argumentative satisfaction, as if they 
were glad that they could make this point so strong. 

I know, then, and admit, that men, and all men, more 
or less, are, alas! sinful and bad. I know that the 
catalogue of human transgressions is long, and dark, 
and mournful. The words, pride, and envy, and anger, 
and selfishness, and base indulgence, are words of 



24 



DISCOURSE I. 



lamentation. They are words, that should make a 
man weep when he pronounces them, and most of all 
when he applies them to himself, or to his fellow-men. 

But what now is the inference from all this ? Is it, 
that man is an utterly debased, degraded, and con- 
temptible creature ? — that there is nothing in him to 
be revered, or respected ? — that the human heart pre- 
sents nothing to us but a mark for cold and blighting 
reproach ? Without wishing to assert any thing para- 
doxical, it seems to me that the very reverse is the 
inference. 

I should reason thus upon this point. I should say; 
it must be a noble creature that can so offend. I should 
say ; there must be a contrast of light and shade, to 
make the shade so deep. It is no ordinary being, 
surely— it is a being of conscience, of moral powers 
and glorious capacities, that calls from us, such intense 
reproach and indignation. We never so arraign the 
animal creation. The very power of sinning is a lofty 
and awful power! It is, in the language of our holiest 
poet, "the excess of glory obscured." Neither is it a 
power standing alone. It is not a solitary, unqualified, 
diabolical power of evil ; a dark, and cold abstraction 
of wickedness. No, it is clothed with other qualities. 
No, it has dread attendants — attendants, I had almost 
said, that dignify even the wrong. A waiting con- 
science, visitings — Oh! visitings of better thoughts, 
calls of honour and self respect, come to the sinner; 
terrific admonition whispering on his secret ear; pro- 
phetic warning pointing him to the dim and veiled 
shadows of future retribution ; and the all-penetrating, 
all-surrounding idea of an avenging God, are present 
with him : and the right arm of the felon and the trans- 



6 



DISCOURSE L 25 

gressor is lifted up, amidst lightnings of conviction 
and thunderings of reproach. I can tremble at such 
a being as this ; I can pity him ; I can weep for him ; 
but I cannot scorn him. 

The very words of condemnation which we apply 
to sin, are words of comparison. When we describe 
the act of the transgressor as mean, for instance, we 
recognise, I repeat, the nobility of his nature; and 
when we say, that his offence is a degradation, we 
imply a certain distinction. And so to do wrong im- 
plies a noble power — the very power which consti- 
tutes the glory of heaven — the power to do right. And 
thus it is, as I apprehend, that the inspired Teachers 
speak of the wickedness and unworthiness of man. 
They seem to do it under a sense of his better capaci- 
ties and higher distinction. They speak as if he had 
wronged himself. And when they use the words 
ruin and perdition, they announce, in affecting terms, 
the worth of that which is reprobate and lost. Paul 
when speaking of his transgressions says, — "not I, but 
the sin, that dwelleth in me." There was a better 
nature in him, that resisted evil, though it did not 
always successfully resist. And we read of the Pro- 
digal Son, — in terms which have always seemed to 
me of the most affecting import — that when he came 
to the sense of his duty, he "came — to himself" Yes, 
the sinner is beside himself ; and there is no peace, no 
reconciliation of his conduct to his nature, till he 
returns from his evil ways. Shall we not say, 
then, that his nature demands virtue and rectitude 
to satisfy it? 

True it is, and I w r ould not be one, to weaken nor 
obscure the truth, that man is sinful; but he is not 

3 



26 



DISCOURSE I. 



satisfied with sinning. Not his conscience only, but his 
wants, his natural affections, are not satisfied. He 
pays deep penalties for his transgressions. And these 
sufferings proclaim a higher nature. The pain, the 
disappointment, the dissatisfaction, that w T ait on an evil 
course, show that the human soul was not made to be 
the instrument of sin, but its lofty avenger. The deso* 
lated affections, the haggard countenance, the pallid 
and sunken cheek, the sighings of grief, proclaim that 
there are ruins indeed, but they proclaim, that some- 
thing noble has fallen into ruin — proclaim it by signs 
mournful, yet venerable, like the desolations of an 
ancient temple, like its broken walls, and falling 
columns, and the hollow sounds of decay that sink 
down heavily among its deserted recesses. 

The sinner, I repeat it, is a sufferer. He seeks 
happiness in low and unworthy objects — that is his 
sin: but he does not find it there — and that is his 
glory. No, he does not find it there : he returns dis- 
appointed and melancholy; and there is nothing on 
earth so eloquent as his grief. Read it in the pages 
of a Byron and a Burns. There is nothing in literature 
so touching as these lamentations of noble but erring 
natures, in the vain quest of a happiness which sin and 
the world can never give. The sinner is often dazzled 
by earthly fortune and pomp, but it is in the very 
midst of these things, that he sometimes most feels 
their emptiness; that his higher nature most feels that 
it is solitary and unsatisfied. It is in the giddy whirl 
of frivolous pursuits and amusements, that his soul 
oftentimes is sick and weary with trifles and vanities: 
that "he says of laughter^ it is mad; and of mirth, 
what doeth it?" 



DISCOURSE I. 



21 



And yet it is not bare disappointment, nor the mere 
destitution of happiness caused by sin, — it is not these 
alone that give testimony to a better nature. There 
is a higher power that bears sway in the human heart. 
It is remorse — sacred, uncompromising remorse, that 
will hear of no selfish calculations of pain and pleasure, 
that demands to suifer, that, of all sacrifices on earth, 
save those of benevolence, brings the only willing 
victim. What lofty revenge does the abused soul 
thus take, for its offences: never, no, never, in all its 
anger, punishing another, as in its justice, it punishes 
itself! 

Such, then, are the attributes that still dwell in the 
dark grandeur of the soul ; the beams of original light, 
of which amidst its thickest darkness it is never shorn. 
That in which all the nobleness of earth resides, 
should not be condemned even, but with awe and 
trembling. It is our treasure ; and if this is lost, all is 
lost. Let us take care, then, that we be not unjust. 
Man is not an angel ; but neither is he a demon, — nor, 
a brute. The evil he does, is not committed with 
brutish insensibility, nor with diabolical satisfaction. 
And the evil, too, is often disguised under forms that 
do not, at once, permit him to see its real character. 
His affections become wrong, by excess; passions be- 
wilder; semblances delude; interests ensnare; exam- 
ple corrupts. And yet no tyrant over men's thoughts, 
no unworthy seeker of their adulation, no pander for 
their guilty pleasures, could ever make the human 
heart, what he would. And in making it what he has, 
he has often found that he had to work with stubborn 
materials. No perseverance of endeavour, nor devices 
of ingenuity, nor depths of artifice, have ever equalled 



28 



DISCOURSE I. 



those which are sometimes employed to corrupt the 
heart from its youthful simplicity and uprightness. 

In endeavouring to state the views which are to be 
entertained of human nature, I have, at present, and 
before I reverse the picture, but one further observa- 
tion to make. And that is on the spirit and tone with 
which it is to be viewed and spoken of. I have 
wished, even in speaking of its faults, to awaken a 
feeling of reverence and regret for it, such as would 
arise within us, on beholding a noble but mutilated 
statue, or the work of some divine architect in ruins, 
or some majestic object in nature, which had been 
marred by the rending of this world's elements and 
changes. Above all other objects, surely, human nature 
deserves to be regarded with these sentiments. The 
ordinary tone of conversation in allusion to this sub- 
ject, the sneering remark on mankind, as a set of poor 
and miserable creatures, the cold and bitter severity, 
whether of philosophic scorn, or theological rancour, 
become no being; least of all, him who has part in 
this common nature. He, at least, should speak with 
consideration and tenderness. And if he must speak 
of faults and sins, he would do well to imitate an 
Apostle, and to tell these things, even weeping. His 
tone should be, that of forbearance and pity. His 
words should be recorded in a Book of Lamentations. 
*'How is the gold become dim," he might exclaim in 
the words of an ancient lamentation — "how is the gold 
become dim, and the most fine gold changed ! The 
precious sons of Zion, comparable to fine gold, how 
are they esteemed but as earthen vessels, the work of 
the hands of the potter!" 



29 



DISCOURSE II. 

ON HUMAN NATURE. 



PSALM VIM- 5. For thou hast made him a little lower 

THAN THE ANGELS, AND HAST CROWNED HIM WITH GLORY 
AND HONOUR. 

I have endeavoured, in my last discourse, to show 
that the very objections which are usually brought 
against human nature, imply in the very fact, in the 
yery spirit and tone of them, the strongest concessions 
to its worth. I shall now proceed to the direct argu- 
ment in its favour. It is the constitutional worth of 
human nature that we have thus far considered rather 
than its moral worth, or absolute virtue. We have 
considered the indignant reproaches against its sin and 
debasement, whether of the philosopher or the theolo- 
gian, as evidence of their own conviction, that it was 
made for something better. We have considered that 
moral constitution of human nature, by which it was 
evidently made not to be the slave of sin, but its 
conqueror. 

Let us now proceed to take some account of its 
moral traits and acquisitions. I say its moral traits and 
acquisitions. For there are feelings of the human 
mind, which scarcely rise to the character of acquisi- 
tions, which are involuntary impulses ; and yet which 

o # 
u 



30 



DISCOURSE II. 



possess a nature as truly moral, though not in as high 
a degree, as any voluntary acts of virtue, Such is the 
simple, natural love of excellence. It bears the same 
relation to moral effort, as spontaneous reason, does 
to reflection or logical effort : and what is spontaneous, 
in both cases, is the very foundation of the acquisitions 
that follow. Thus, the involuntary perception of a 
few axioms lies at the foundation of Mathematical 
science; and so from certain spontaneous impressions 
of truth, springs all knowledge ; and in the same man- 
ner, our spontaneous moral impressions are the germs 
of the highest moral efforts. 

Of these spontaneous impressions, I am to speak 
in the first place ; and then to produce in favour of 
human nature the testimony of its higher and more 
confirmed virtues. 

But I am not willing to enter upon this theme, 
without first offering a remark or two, to prevent any 
misconception of the purpose for which I again bring 
forward this discussion. It is not to bring to the 
altar at which I minister, an oblation of flattery to my 
fellow worshippers. It is not to make any man feel 
his moral dangers to be less, or to make him easier in 
reference to that solemn, spiritual trust that is com- 
mitted to his nature ; but the very contrary. It is not 
to make him think less of his sins, but more. It is not 
in fine to build up any one theological dogma, or to 
beat down another. 

My view of the subject, if I may state it without 
presumption, is this — that there is a treasure in human 
nature of which most men are not conscious, and with 
which none are yet fully acquainted ! If you had met 
in a retired part of the country with some rustic 



DISCOURSE II. 



31 



youth, who bore in his character, the indications of a 
most sublime genius, and if you saw that he was 
ignorant of it, and that those around him were igno- 
rant of it, you would look upon him with extreme, 
with enthusiastic interest, and you would be anxious 
to bring him into the light, and to rear him up to his 
proper sphere of distinction. This, may I be per- 
mitted to say, illustrates the view which I take of 
human nature. I believe that there is something in 
every man's heart upon which he ought to look as 
a found treasure ; something upon which he ought 
to look with awe and wonder ; something which 
should make him tremble when he thinks of sacrificing 
it to sin ; something, also, to encourage and cheer 
him in every endeavour after virtue and purity. Far 
be it from me to say, that that something is confirmed 
goodness, or is the degree of goodness which is ne- 
cessary to make him happy, here or hereafter ; or, that 
it is something to rest upon, or to rely upon, in the 
anticipation of God's judgment. Still I believe that 
he who says there is nothing good in him, no founda- 
tion, no feeling of goodness, says what is not true, 
what is not just to himself, what is not just to his 
Maker's beneficence. 

I will refer now, to those moral traits, to those in- 
voluntary moral impressions, of which I have already 
spoken. 

Instances of this nature might undoubtedly be drawn 
from every department of social life ; from social kind- 
ness, from friendship, from parental and filial love, 
from the feelings of spontaneous generosity, pity, and 
admiration, which every day kindles into life and 
warmth around us. But since these feelings are often 



32 



DISCOURSE II. 



alleged to be of a doubtful character, and are so, 
indeed, to a certain extent ; since they are often mixed 
up with interested considerations which lessen their 
weight in this argument, I am about to appeal to 
cases, which, though they are not often brought into 
the pulpit, will appear to you I trust to be excused, if 
not justified, by the circumstance that they are alto- 
gether apposite cases ; cases that is to say, of disin- 
terested feeling. 

The world is inundated in this age, with a perfect 
deluge of fictitious productions. I look, indeed, upon 
the exclusive reading of such works, in which too 
many employ their leisure time, as having a very bad 
and dangerous tendency : but this is not to my pur- 
pose, at present. I only refer now to the well known 
extent and fascination of this kind of reading, for the 
purpose of putting a single question, I ask, what is 
the moral character of these productions ? Not high 
enough, certainly ; but then I ask still more specifi- 
cally, whether the preference is given to virtue or to 
vice, in these books ; and to which of them, the feel- 
ings of the reader generally lean ? Can there be one 
moment's doubt? Is not virtue usually held up to 
admiration, and are not the feelings universally en- 
listed in its favour? Must not the character of the 
leading personage in the story, to satisfy the public 
taste, be good, and is not his career pursued with 
intense interest to the end ? Now, reverse the case. 
Suppose his character to be bad. Suppose him un- 
generous, avaricious, sensual, debased. Would he 
then be admired ? Would he then, enlist the sympa- 
thies even of the most frivolous reader ? It is unne- 
cessary to answer the question. Here, then, is a right 



DISCOURSE II. 



33 



and virtuous feeling at work in the community : and 
it is a perfectly disinterested feeling. Here, I say, 
is a right and virtuous feeling, beating through the 
whole heart of society. Why should any one say. it 
is not a feeling ; that it is conscience ; that it is mere 
approbation. It is a feeling, if any thing is. There 
is intense interest ; there are tears, to testify that it is 
a feeling. 

If, then, I put such a book into the hands of any 
reader, and if he feels this, let him not tell me that 
there is nothing good in him. There may not be 
goodness, fixed, habitual goodness in him ; but there 
is something good, out of which goodness may grow. 

Of the same character are the most favourite popu- 
lar songs and ballads. The chosen themes of these 
compositions are patriotism, generosity, pity, love. 
Now it is known that nothing sinks more deeply into 
the heart of nations ; and yet these are their themes. 
Let me make the ballads of a people, some one has 
said, and let who will, make their laws ; and yet he 
must construct them on these principles ; he must 
compose them in praise of patriotism, honour, fidelity, 
generous sympathy, and pure love. I say, pure love. 
Let the passion be made a base one ; let it be capri- 
cious, mercenary, or sensual, and it instantly loses the 
public sympathy : the song would be instantly hissed 
from the stage of the vilest theatre that ever was 
opened. No, it must be true-hearted affection, hold- 
ing its faith and fealty bright and unsoiled, amidst 
change of fortunes, amidst poverty, and disaster, and 
separation, and reproach. The popular taste will 
hardly allow the affection to be as prudent as it ought 
to be, And when I listen to one of these popular 



34 



DISCOURSE II. 



ballads or songs that tells — it may be not in the best 
taste — but which tells the thrilling tale of high, disin- 
terested, magnanimous fidelity to the sentiments of 
the heart ; that tells of pure and faithful affection, 
which no cold looks can chill, which no storms of 
misfortune can quench, which prefers simple merit to 
all worldly splendour ; when I observe this, I say, I 
see a noble feeling at work ; and that which many 
will pronounce to be silly, through a certain shame- 
facedness about their own sensibility, I regard as re- 
spectable, and honourable to human nature. 

Now I say again, as I said before, let these popular 
compositions set forth the beauties of vice; let them 
celebrate meanness, parsimony, fraud or cowardice ; 
and would they dwell, as they now do, in the habita- 
tions, and in the hearts, and upon the lips, of whole 
nations? What a disinterested testimony is this to the 
charms of virtue ! What evidence that men feel those 
charms, though they may not be won by them to 
virtuous lives ! The national songs of a people do not 
embrace cold sentiments: they are not sung or heard 
with cold approbation. They fire the breasts of mil- 
lions. They draw tears from the eyes of ten thou- 
sand circles, that are gathered in the homes of human 
affection. 

And the power of music, too, as a separate thing — the 
power of simple melody, I mean — lies very much, as 
it seems to me, in the sentiments and affections it 
awakens. There is a pleasure to the ear, doubtless ; 
but there is a pleasure also, to the heart; and this is 
the greater pleasure. But what kind of pleasure is it? 
Does that melody which addresses the universal mind, 
appeal to vile and base passions? Is not the state into 



DISCOURSE II. 



35 



which it naturally throws almost every mind favourable 
to gentle and kind emotions, to lofty efforts and heroic 
sacrifices? But if the human heart possessed no high 
nor holy feelings, if it were entirely alien to them, then 
the music which excites them, should excite them to 
voluptuousness, cruelty, strife, fraud, avarice, and to 
all the mean aims and indulgences of a selfish dis- 
position. 

Let not these illustrations — which are adopted, to be 
sure, partly because they are fitted to unfold a moral 
character where no credit has usually been given for 
it, and because, too, they present at once universal and 
disinterested manifestations of human feeling — let not 
these illustrations, I say, be thought to furnish an un- 
satisfactory inference, because they are drawn from 
the lighter actions of the human mind. The feeling in 
all these cases is not superficial nor feeble ; and the 
slighter the occasion that awakens it, the stronger is our 
argument. If the leisure and recreations of men, yield 
such evidence of deep moral feeling, what are they 
not capable of, when armed with lofty purposes and 
engaged in high duties ? If the instrument yields such 
noble strains, though incoherent and intermitted, to 
the slightest touch, what might not be done, if the 
hand of skill were laid upon it, to bring out all its sub- 
lime harmonies? Oh! that some powerful voice might 
speak to this inward nature — powerful as the story of 
heroic deeds, moving as the voice of song, arousing 
as the trumpet-call to honor and victory ! My friends, 
if we are among those who are pursuing the sinful 
way, let us be assured that we know not ourselves 
yet ; we have not searched the depths of our nature ; 
we have not communed with its deepest wants ; we 



86 



DISCOURSE II. 



have not listened to its strongest and highest affections; 
if we had done all this, we could not abuse it as we 
do ; nor could we neglect it as we do. 

But it is time to pass from these instances of spon- 
taneous and universal feeling, to those cases in which 
such feeling, instead of being occasional and evanescent, 
is formed into a prevailing habit and a consistent and 
fixed character; to pass from good affections, transient, 
uncertain, and unworthily neglected, to good men, 
who are permanently such, and worthy to be called 
such. Our argument from this source is more confined, 
but it gains strength by its compression within a nar- 
rower compass. 

I shall not be expected here to occupy the time, with 
asserting or proving, that there are good men in the 
world. It will be more important to reply to a single 
objection under this head, which would be fatal if it 
were just, and to point to some characteristics of 
human virtue which prove its great and real worth. 
Let me however for a moment indulge myself in the 
simple assertion, of what every mind, not entirely mis- 
anthropic, must feel to be true. I say then that there 
are good men in the world : there are good men every 
where. There are men who are good for goodness' 
sake. In obscurity, in retirement, beneath the shadow 
of ten thousand dwellings, scarcely known to the world 
and never asking to be known, there are good men 
In adversity, in poverty, amidst temptations, amidst 
all the severity of earthly trials, there are good men, 
whose lives shed brightness upon the dark clouds 
that surround them. Be it true, if we must admit the 
sad truth, that many are wrong, and persist in being 
wrong ; that many are false to every holy trust, and 



DISCOURSE II. 



37 



faithless towards every holy affection; that many are 
estranged from infinite goodness ; that many are coldly 
selfish and meanly sensual — yes, cold, and dead to 
every thing that is not wrapped up in their own little 
earthly interest, or more darkly wrapped up in the 
veil of fleshly appetites. Be it so; but I thank God, 
that is not all that w T e are obliged to believe. No, 
there are true hearts, amidst the throng of the false and 
the faithless. There are warm and generous hearts, 
which the cold atmosphere of surrounding selfishness 
never chills ; and eyes, unused to w r eep for personal 
sorrow, which often overflow with sympathy for the 
sorrows of others. Yes, there are good men, and true 
men; I thank them; I bless them for what they are: 
I thank them for what they are to me. What do I say — 
why do I utter my weak benediction? God from on 
high, doth bless them, and he giveth his angels charge 
to keep them; and no where in the holy Record are 
there words more precious or strong, than those in 
which it is written that God loveth these righteous 
ones. Such men are there. Let not their precious 
virtues be distrusted. As surely and as evidently as 
some men have obeyed the calls of ambition and 
pleasure, so surely, and so evidently, have other men 
obeyed the voice of conscience, and "chosen rather to 
suffer with the people of God than to enjoy the plea- 
sures of sin for a season." Why, every meek man 
suffers in a conflict keener far, than the contest for 
honour and applause. And there are such men, who 
amidst injury, and insult, and misconstruction, and the 
pointed finger, and the scornful lip of pride, stand firm 
in their integrity and allegiance to a loftier principle, 
and still their throbbing hearts in prayer, and hush 

4 



discourse ih 



them to the gentle motions of kindness and pity. Such 
witnesses there are even in this bad world ; signs that 
a redeeming work is going forward amidst its mourn- 
ful derelictions ; proofs that it is not a world forsaken of 
heaven ; pledges that it will not be forsaken ; tokens 
that cheer and touch every good and thoughtful mind, 
beyond all other power of earth to penetrate and 
enkindle it. 

I believe, that what I have now said, is a most legi- 
timate argument for the worth of human nature. As 
a matter of fact, it will not be denied that such beings 
as I have represented, there are. And I now further 
maintain, and this is the most material point in the 
argument, that such men — that good men, in other 
words — are to be regarded as the rightful and legitimate 
representatives of human nature. Surely, not man's 
sins but his virtues, not his failure but his success, 
should teach us what to think of his nature. Just as 
we should look, for their real character, to the pro- 
ductions nourished by a favourable soil and climate, 
and not to the same plants or trees, as they stand 
withered and stunted in a barren desert. 

But here we are met with the objection before 
referred to. It is said that man's virtues come from 
God ; and his sins only, from his own nature. And 
thus — for this is the result of the objection — from 
the estimate of what is human, all human excellence 
is at once cut off, by this fine discrimination of 
theological subtilty. Unreasonable as this seems to 
me — if the objector will forget his theology for one 
moment — I will answer it. I say, then, that the in- 
fluence of the good spirit of God, does not destroy our 
natural powers, but guides them into a right direction ; 



DISCOURSE II. 



39 



that it does not create any thing unnatural, surely, nor 
supernatural in man, but what is suitable to his nature ; 
that in fine, his virtues are as truly the voluntary put 
ting forth of his native powers, as his sins are. Else 
would his virtues have no worth. Human nature, in 
short, is the noble stock on which these virtues grow. 
With heaven's rain, and sunshine, and genial influence, 
do you say? Be it so; still they are no less human, 
and show the stock from which they spring. When 
you look over a grain-field, and see some parts more 
luxuriant than others, do you say, that they are of a 
different nature from the rest ? And when you look 
abroad upon the world, do you think it right to take 
Tartars and Hottentots as specimens of the race? 
And why then shall you regard the worst of men, 
rather than the best, as samples of human nature and 
capability? 

The way, then, is open for us to claim for human 
nature~how T ever, that nature is breathed upon by 
heavenly influences — to claim for human nature, all 
the excellent fruits that have sprung from it. And 
they are not few ; they are not small ; they are not 
contemptible. 

They have cost too much — if there were no other 
consideration to give them value — they have cost too 
much, to be thus estimated. 

The true idea of human nature, is not, that it pas- 
sively and spontaneously produces its destined results ; 
but, that placed in a fearful contest between good and 
evil, it is capable of glorious exertions and attain- 
ments. Human virtue is the result of effort and 
patience, in circumstances that most severely try it. 
Human excellence is much of it gained at the expense 



40 



discourse n» 



of self-denial. All the wisdom and worth in the world, 
are a struggle with ignorance and infirmity and 
temptation; often with sickness and pain. There is 
not an admirable character presented before you, but 
it has cost years, and years, of toil and watching and 
self-government to form it. You see the victor, but 
you forget the battle. And you forget it, for a reason 
that exalts and ennobles the fortitude and courage of 
the combatant. You forget it, because the conflict has 
been carried on, all silently, in his own bosom. You 
forget it, because no sound has gone forth, and no 
wreath of fame has awaited the conqueror. 

And what has he gained ? — to refer to but one more 
of the many view r s that might be urged — what has he 
gained? I answer, what is worth too much to be 
slightly estimated. The catalogue of human virtues 
is not brief nor dull. What glowing words do w T e 
involuntarily put into that record ! with what feelings 
do we hallow it ! The charm of youthful excellence, 
the strong integrity of manhood, the venerable piety 
of age ; unsullied honour, unswerving truth, fidelity, 
magnanimity, self-sacrifice, martyrdom; ay, and the 
spirit of martyrdom in many a form of virtue — sacred 
friendship, with its disinterested toil, ready to die for 
those it loves ; noble patriotism, slain in its high places, 
beautiful in death: holy philanthropy, that pours out 
its treasure and its life ; — dear and blessed virtues of 
humanity! (we are ready to exclaim) — what human 
heart does not cherish you? — bright cloud that hath 
passed on with "the sacramental host of God's elect," 
through ages! — how dark and desolate but for you, 
would be this world's history ! 

My friends, I have spoken of the reality and worth 



DISCOURSE II. 



41 



of virtue, and I have spoken of it as a part of human 
nature, not surely to awaken a feeling of pride, but to 
lead you and myself, to an earnest aspiration after that 
excellence, which embraces the chief welfare and 
glory of our nature. A cold disdain of our species, an 
indulgence of sarcasm, a feeling that is always ready 
to distrust and disparage every indication of virtuous 
principle, or an utter despair of the moral fortunes of 
our race, will not help the purpose in view, but must 
have a powerful tendency to hinder its accomplish- 
ment. 

Unhappy is it, that any are left, by any possibility, 
to doubt the virtues of their kind ! Let us do some- 
thing to wipe away from the history of human life, 
that fatal reproach. Let us make that best of contri- 
butions to the stock of human happiness, an example 
of goodness that shall disarm such gloomy and chill- 
ing skepticism, and w r in men's hearts to virtue. I 
have received many benefits, from my fellow-beings. 
But no gift, in their power to bestow, can ever impart 
such a pure and thrilling delight, as one bright action, 
one lovelv virtue, one character that shines w 7 ith all 
the enrapturing beauty of goodness. 

Who would not desire to confer such benefits on 
the world as these ? Who would not desire to leave 
such memorials behind him ? Such memorials have 
been left on earth ; the virtues, of the departed, but 
for ever dear, hallow r and bless many of our dwellings, 
and call forth tears that lose half their bitterness in 
gratitude and admiration. Yes, there are such lega- 
cies, and there are those on earth who have inherited 
them. Yes, there are men, poor men, whose parents 
have left them a legacy in their bare memory, that 

4* 



42 



DISCOURSE II. 



they would not exchange — no, they would not ex- 
change it, for boundless wealth. Let it be our care 
to bequeath to society and to the world, blessings like 
these. " The memorial of virtue," saith the wisdom 
of Solomon, " is immortal. When it is present, men 
take example from it ; and when it is gone, they 
desire it ; it weareth a crown, and triumpheth for 
ever." 



43 



DISCOURSE HI. 

ON THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES TO HUMAN NATURE. 



PROVERBS VIII. 36. He that sinneth against me 

WRONGETH HIS OWN SOUL. 

This is represented as the language of wisdom. 
The attribute of wisdom is personified throughout the 
chapter ; and it closes its instructions with the decla- 
ration of our text : " he that sinneth against me, 
wrongeth his own soul." The theme, then, which, in 
these words, is obviously presented for our meditation, 
is the wrong which the sinner does to himself, to his 
nature, to his own soul. 

He does a wrong, indeed, to others. He does them, 
it may be, deep and heinous injury. The moral offen- 
der injures society, and injures it in the most vital 
part. Sin is, to all the dearest interests of society, a 
desolating power. It spreads misery through the 
world. It brings that misery into the daily lot of mil- 
lions. Yes, the violence of anger, the exactions of 
selfishness, the corrodings of envy, the coldness of dis- 
trust, the contests of pride, the excesses of passion, the 
indulgences of sense, carry desolation into the very 
bosom of domestic life ; and the crushed and bleeding 
hearts of friends and kindred, or of a larger circle of 
the suffering and oppressed, are every where, wit- 



44 



DISCOURSE III. 



nesses, at once, and victims, of the mournful preva- 
lence of this great evil. 

But all the injury, great and terrible as it is, which 
the sinner does or can inflict upon others, is not equal 
to the injury that he inflicts upon himself. The evil 
that he does, is, in almost all cases, the greater, the 
nearer it comes to himself ; greater to his friends than 
to society at large ; greater to his family, than to his 
friends ; and so is it greater to himself, than it is to 
any other. Yes, it is in his own nature, whose glori- 
ous traits are dimmed and almost blotted out, whose 
pleading remonstrances are sternly disregarded, w T hose 
immortal hopes are rudely stricken down — it is in his 
own nature that he does a work so dark and mourn- 
ful, and so fearful, that he ought to shudder and weep 
to think of it. 

Does any one say " he is glad that it is so ; glad 
that it is himself he injures most?" What a feeling, 
my brethren, of disinterested justice is that ! How 
truly, may it be said, that there is something good even 
in bad men. Yes, doubtless, there are those, w T ho in 
their remorse at an evil deed, would be glad if all the 
injury and suffering could be their own. I rejoice in 
that testimony. But does that feeling make it any 
less true, — does not that feeling make it more true, 
that such a nature is wronged by base and selfish 
passions ? Or, because it is a man's self, because it is 
his own soul that he has most injured ; because he has 
not only wronged others, but ruined himself, is his 
course any the less guilty, or unhappy, or unnatural ? 

I say, unnatural ; and this is a point on which I wish 
to insist, in the consideration of that w r rong which the 
moral offender does to himself. The sinner, I say, is 



DISCOURSE III. 



45 



to be pronounced an unnatural being. He has cast 
off the government of those powers of his nature, 
which as being the loftiest, have the best right to reign 
over him — the government, that is to say, of his intel- 
lectual and moral faculties ; and has yielded himself 
to meaner appetites. Those meaner appetites, though 
they belong to his nature, have no right, and he knows 
they have no right, to govern him. The rightful au- 
thority, the lawful sovereignty belongs, and he knows 
that it belongs, not to sense, but to conscience. To 
rebel against this, is to sin against nature. It is to 
rebel against nature's order. It is to rebel against the 
government that God has set up within him. It is to 
obey, not venerable authority, but the faction w T hich his 
passions have made within him. 

Thus violence and misrule are ahvays the part of 
transgression. Nay, every sin — I do not mean now 
the natural and unavoidable imperfection of a weak 
and ignorant being, — but every wilful moral offence 
is a monstrous excess and excrescence in the mind, a 
hideous deformity, a loathsome disease, a destruction, 
so far as it goes, of the purposes for w r hich our 
nature was made. As well might you say of the dis- 
eased plant or tree, which is w T asting all its vigour on 
the growth of one huge and unsightly deformity, that 
it is in a natural condition. Grant that the natural 
pow 7 ers of the plant or tree are converted, or rather 
perverted to this misuse, and help to produce this de- 
formity: yet the deformity is not natural. Grant that 
sin is the possible, or supposable, or that it is the actual, 
nay, and in this world, the common, result of moral 
freedom. It has been argued, I know, that what is 
common, is natural ; and grant that too. But sin, we 



4G 



DISCOURSE III. 



believe, is not common in the whole moral universe. 
It is not the common result of universal moral action. 
And it is evidently not the just and legitimate result ; 
it is not the fair and natural result; it violates all 
moral powers and responsibilities. If the mechanism 
of a vast manufactory, were thrown into sudden dis- 
order, the power which propels it, — and a power, if you 
please, which the artificer had placed in it,— might, 
indeed, spread destruction throughout the whole work ; 
but would that be the natural course of things ; the 
result for which the fabric was made ? So passion, 
not in its natural state, but still natural passion, in its 
unnatural state of excess and fury, may spread disor- 
der and destruction through the moral system ; but 
wreck and ruin are not the proper order of any nature, 
whether material or moral. 

The idea against which I am now contending, that 
sin is natural to us, and in fact, that nothing else is 
natural — this popular and prevailing idea is one, it 
seems to me, so fearful and fatal in its bearings — is one 
of such comprehensive and radical mischief, as to 
infect the religious state of all mankind, and to over- 
shadow, almost with despair, the moral prospects of 
the world. There is no error, theological or moral, 
that appears to me, so destructive as this. There is 
nothing that lies so near the very basis of all moral 
reform and spiritual improvement as this. 

If it were a matter of mere doctrine it would be of 
less consequence. But it is a matter of habitual feel- 
ing, I fear, and of deep-settled opinion. The world, 
alas ! is not only in the sad and awful condition of 
being filled with sin, and filled with misery in conse- 
quence, but of thinking that this is the natural order of 



DISCOURSE III. 



47 



things. Sin is a thing of course ; it is taken for granted 
that it must exist very much in the way that it does ; 
and men are every where easy about it : they are 
every where sinking into worldliness and vice as if 
they were acting out the principles of their moral 
constitution, and almost as if they were fulfilling the 
will of God. And thus it comes to pass, that that which 
should fill the world with grief and astonishment and 
horror, beyond all things else most horrible and 
lamentable, is regarded with perfect apathy as a thing 
natural and necessary. Why, my brethren, if but the 
animal creation w T ere found, on a sudden, disobedient 
to the principles of their nature, if they were ceasing 
to regard the guiding instincts with which they are 
endowed, and were rushing into universal madness, 
the whole world would stand aghast at the spectacle. 
But multitudes in the rational creation, disobey a 
higher law and forsake a more sacred guidance ; they 
degrade themselves below the beasts, or make them- 
selves as entirely creatures of this world; they plunge 
into excess and profligacy ; they bow down divine and 
immortal faculties to the basest uses : and there is no 
wonder, there is no horror, there is no consciousness 
of the wrong done to themselves. They say, "it is the 
natural course of things," as if they had solved the 
whole problem of moral evil. They say, "it is the way 
of the world," almost as if they thought it was the 
order of providence. They say, "it is what men are/' 
almost as if they thought it was what men were de- 
signed to be. And thus ends their comment, and with 
it, all reasonable endeavour to make themselves better 
and happier. 

If this state of prevailing opinion be as certainly 



48 



DISCOURSE in. 



erroneous, as it is evidently dangerous, it is of the last im* 
portance that every resistance, however feeble, should 
be offered to its fatal tendencies. Let us therefore 
consider, a little more in detail, the wrong which sin 
does to human nature. I say then, that it does a wrong 
to every natural faculty and power of the mind. 

Sin does a wrong to reason. There are instances, 
and not a few, in which sin, in various forms of vice 
and vanity, absolutely destroys reason. There are 
other and more numerous cases, in which it employs 
that faculty, but employs it in a toil most degrading to 
its nature. There is reasoning, indeed, in the mind of 
a miser; the solemn arithmetic of profit and loss. 
There is reasoning in the schemes of unscrupulous 
ambition; the absorbing and agitating intrigue for 
office or honour. There is reasoning upon the modes 
of sensual pleasure ; and the whole power of a very 
acute mind is sometimes employed and absorbed, in 
plans, and projects, and imaginations of evil indul- 
gence. But what an unnatural desecration is it, for 
reason, sovereign, majestic, all comprehending reason, 
to contract its boundless range to the measure of what 
the hand can grasp — to be sunk so low, as to idolize 
outward or sensitive good ; to make its god, not indeed 
of wood or stone, but of a sense, or a nerve ! What a 
prostration of immortal reason is it, to bend its whole 
power to the poor and pitiful uses, which sinful indul- 
gence demands of it ! 

Sin is a kind of insanity. So far as it goes, it makes 
man an irrational creature: it makes him a fool The 
consummation of sin is, ever, and in every form, the 
extreme of folly. And it is that most pitiable folly 
which is puffed up, with arrogance and self-sufficiency. 



DISCOURSE III, 



49 



Sin degrades, it impoverishes, it beggars, the soul ; and 
yet the soul in this very condition, blesses itself in its 
superior endowments and happy fortune. Yes, every 
sinner is a beggar: as truly as the most needy and des- 
perate mendicant He begs for a precarious hap- 
piness ; he begs it of his possessions or his coffers, that 
cannot give it; he begs it of every passing trifle and 
pleasure; he begs it of things most empty and uncer- 
tain, — of every vanity, of every shout of praise in the 
vacant air; of every wandering eye he begs its 
homage: he wants these things, he wants them for 
happiness, he wants them to satisfy the craving soul; 
and yet he imagines that he is very fortunate ; he ac- 
counts himself wise, or great, or honourable, or rich, 
increased in goods, and in need of nothing. The in- 
fatuation of the inebriate man, who is elated, and gay, 
just when he ought to be most depressed and sad, we 
very well understand. But it is just as true of every 
man that is intoxicated by any of his senses or pas- 
sions, by wealth or honour or pleasure, that he is in- 
fatuated; that he has abjured reason. 

What clearer dictate of reason is there than to pre- 
fer the greater good, to the lesser good. But every 
offender, every sensualist, every avaricious man, 
sacrifices the greater good, — the happiness of virtue 
and piety — for the lesser good, which he finds in his 
senses or in the perishing world. Nor, is this the 
strongest view of the case. He sacrifices the greater 
for the less, without any necessity far it. He might 
have both. He gives up heaven for earth, when in 
the best sense, he might, I repeat, have both. A pure 
mind can derive more enjoyment from this world, and 
from the senses, than an impure mind. This is true 

5 



so 



DISCOURSE lit, 



even of the lowest senses. But there are other senses, 
besides these; and the pleasures of the epicure are 
far from equalling even in intensity, those which piety 
draws from the glories of vision, and the melodies of 
sound — ministers as they are of thoughts and feelings, 
that swell far beyond the measure of all worldly joy. 

The love of happiness might properly be treated as 
a separate part of our nature, and I had intended, 
indeed, to speak of it distinctly — to speak of the mea- 
gre and miserable provision w r hich unholy gratifica- 
tion makes for it ; and yet more of the cruel wrong 
which is done to this eager and craving love of hap- 
piness. But as I have fallen on this topic, and find 
the space that belongs to me diminishing, I must con- 
tent myself with a single suggestion. 

What bad man ever desired that his child should be 
like himself? Vice is said to wear an alluring aspect ; 
and many a heedless youth, alas ! rushes into its em- 
braces for happiness ; but what vicious man, what 
corrupt and dissolute man, ever desired that his child 
should walk in his steps? And what a testimony is 
this, what a clear and disinterested testimony, to the 
unhappiness of a sinful course ! Yes, it is the bad 
man that often feels an interest about the virtue of 
others, beyond all, perhaps, that good men feel- 
feels an intensity, an agony of desire for his children, 
that they may be brought up virtuously — that they may 
never, never be, such as he is ! 

How truly, $nd with what striking emphasis, did 
the venerable Cranmer reply, when told that a cer- 
tain man had cheated him, " no, he has cheated him- 
self." Every bad man, every dishonest man, every 
corrupt man, cheats himself of a good, far dearer than 



DISCOURSE III. 



51 



any advantage that he obtains over his neighbour. 
Others he may injure, abuse, and delude ; but, another 
thing is true, though commonly forgotten, and that is, 
that he deludes himself, abuses himself, injures him- 
self, more than he does all other men. 

In the next place, sin does a wrong to conscience. 
There is a conscience in every man, which is as truly 
a part of his nature, as reason or memory. The offen- 
der against this, therefore, violates no unknown law, 
nor impracticable rule. From the very teaching of 
his nature, he knows what is right, and he knows that 
he can do it ; and his very nature, therefore, instead 
of furnishing him with apologies for wilful wrong, 
holds him inexcusable. Inexcusable, I am aware, is 
a strong word ; and when I have looked at mankind, 
and seen the ways in which they are instructed, edu- 
cated and influenced, I have been disposed to feel as 
if there were palliations. But on the other hand, 
when I consider how strong is the voice of nature in 
a man, how sharp and piercing is the work of a re- 
straining and condemning conscience, how loud and 
terrible is its remonstrance, what a peculiar, what a 
heaven-commissioned anguish it sometimes inflicts 
upon the guilty man ; I am compelled to say, despite 
of all bad teaching, and bad influence, " this being is 
utterly inexcusable." For, I repeat it, there is a con- 
science in men. I cannot admit that human nature 
ever chooses sin as such. It seeks for good, for 
gratification, indeed. But take the vilest man that 
lives ; and if it were so, that he could obtain the gra- 
tification he seeks — be it property or sensual pleasure 
—that he could obtain it, honestly and innocently, he 
would greatly "prefer it, on such terms. This shows 



52 



discourse nr. 



that there is a conscience in him. But he will have 
the desired gratification. And to obtain it, he sets his 
foot upon that conscience, and crushes it down to 
dishonour and agony, worse than death. Ah 1 my 
brethren, we who sit in our closets, talk about vice, 
and dishonesty, and bloody crime, and draw dark 
pictures of them — cold and lifeless, though dark pic- 
tures. But we little know, perhaps, of what we speak, 
The heart, all conscious and alive to the truth, w r ould 
smile in bitterness and derision, at the feebleness of 
our description. And could that heart speak ; could 
" the bosom black as death" send forth its voice of 
living agony in our holy places, it would rend the 
vaulted arches of every sanctuary, with the cry of a 
pierced, and w 7 ounded, and wronged, and ruined nature ! 

Finally, sin does a wrong to the affections. How 
does it mar even that image of the affections, that 
mysterious shrine from which their revealings flash 
forth, " the human face divine ;" bereaving the w r orld 
of more than half its beauty ! Can you ever behold 
sullenness clouding the clear, fair brow of childhood, 
or the flushed cheek of anger, or the averted and 
writhen features of envy, or the dim and sunken eye 
and haggard aspect of vice, or the red signals of 
bloated excess hung out on every feature, proclaim- 
ing the fire that is consuming within — without feeling 
that sin is the despoiler of all that the affections make 
most hallowed and beautiful ? 

But these are only indications of the w T rong that is 
done, and the ruin that is wrought in the heart. Na 
ture has made our affections to be full of tenderness, 
to be sensitive and alive to every touch, to cling to 
their cherished objects with a grasp^ from which 



DISCOURSE III. 



53 



nothing but cruel violence can sever them. We hear 
much, I know, of the coldness of the world ; but I 
cannot believe much that I hear ; nor is it perhaps 
meant, in any sense, that denies to man naturally, the 
most powerful affections ; affections that demand the 
most gentle and considerate treatment. Human love 
— I am ready to exclaim — how strong is it ! What 
yearnings are there of parental fondness, of filial 
gratitude, of social kindness, every where ! What 
impatient asking of ten thousand hearts for the love 
of others ; not for their gold, not for their praise, but 
for their love ! 

But sin enters into this world of the affections, and 
spreads around the death-like coldness of distrust ; 
the word of anger falls like a blow upon the heart ; or 
avarice hardens the heart against every finer feeling ; 
or the insane merriment, or the sullen stupor of the 
inebriate man, falls like a thunder-bolt amidst the cir- 
cle of kindred and children. Oh ! the hearts, where 
sin is to do its work, should be harder than the nether 
mill-stone ; yet it enters in among affections, all warm, 
all sensitive, all gushing forth in tenderness, and deaf 
to all their pleadings, it does its work, as if it were 
some demon of wrath that knew no pity, and heard 
no groans, and felt no relenting. 

But I must not leave this subject to be regarded as 
if it were only a matter for abstract or curious specu- 
lation. It goes beyond reasoning; it goes to the 
conscience, and demands penitence and humiliation. 

For of what, in this view T , is the sensualist guilty ? 
He is guilty not merely of indulging the appetites 
of his body; but of sacrificing to that body, a soul! — . 
I speak literally — of sacrificing to that body a soul; 

5* 



54 



DISCOURSE III. 



yes, of sacrificing all the transcendent and boundless 
creation of God in his nature, to one single nerve of 
his perishing frame. The brightest emanation of God, 
a flame from the everlasting altar, burns within him ; 
and he voluntarily spreads over it, a fleshly veil, a veil 
of appetites, a veil of thick darkness; and if from its 
awful folds, one beam of the holy and insufferable 
light within breaks forth, he closes his eyes, and 
quickly spreads another covering of wilful delusion 
over it, and utterly refuses to see that light, though it 
flashes upon him from the shrine of the Divinity. 
There is, indeed, a peculiarity in the sensuality of a 
man, distinguishing it from the sensual gratification of 
which an animal is capable, and which, many men 
are exalted above the brutes, only to turn to the basest 
uses. The sensual pleasures of a human being derive 
a quality from the mind. They are probably more 
intense, through the co-operating action of the mind. 
The appetite of hunger, or thirst, for instance, is doubt- 
less the same in both animal and man, and its gratifi- 
cation the same in kind; but the mind communicates 
to it a greater intensity. To a certain extent, this is 
unquestionably natural and lawful. But the mind, 
finding that it has this power, and that by absorption 
in sense, by gloating over its objects, it can for a time, 
add something to their enjoyment, — the mind, I say, 
surrenders itself to the base and ignoble ministry. 
The angel in man does homage to the brute in man. 
Reason toils for sense; the imagination panders for 
appetite; and even the conscience — that no faculty 
may be left undebased — the divine conscience strives 
to spread around the loathsome forms of voluptuous- 
ness, a haze of moral beauty— calling intoxication, 



DISCOURSE III. 



55 



enthusiasm ; and revelling, good fellowship ; and digni- 
fying every species of indulgence with some name 
that is holy. 

Of what, again, is the miser, and of what is every 
inordinately covetous man, guilty? Conversant as he 
may be with every species of trade and traffic, there is 
one kind of barter, coming yet nearer to his interest, 
but of w r hich, perchance, he has never thought. He 
barters virtue for gain. That is the stupendous moral 
traffic in which he is engaged. The very attributes 
of the mind are made a part of the stock, in the awful 
trade of avarice. And if its account-book were to 
state truly the whole of every transaction, it would 
often stand thus : " Gained, my hundreds or my thou- 
sands ; lost, the rectitude and peace of my conscience 
"Gained, a great bargain, driven hard; lost, in the 
same proportion, the generosity and kindness of my 
affections." "Credit" — and what strife is there for 
that ultimate item, for that final record? — "Credit, by 
an immense fortune ;" but on the opposing page, the 
last page of that moral, as truly as mercantile account, 
I read those words, written not in golden capitals, but 
in letters of fire — "'a lost soul !" 

Oh ! my brethren, it is a pitiable desecration of such 
a nature as ours to give it up to the world. Some 
baser thing might have been given, without regret ; 
but to bow down reason and conscience, to bind them 
to the clods of earth ; to contract those faculties that 
spread themselves out beyond the world, even 
to infinity — to contract them to worldly trifles — it is 
pitiable ; it is something to mourn and to weep over. 
He who sits down in a dungeon which another has 
made, has not such cause to bewail himself, as he who 



56 



DISCOURSE III. 



sits down in the dungeon which he has thus made for 
himself. Poverty and destitution are sad things ; but 
there is no such poverty, there is no such destitution, 
as that of a covetous and worldly heart. Poverty is a 
sad thing, but there is no man so poor, as he who is 
poor in his affections and virtues. Many a house is 
full, where the mind is unfurnished and the heart is 
empty; and no hovel of mere penury ever ought to be 
so sad as that house. Behold, it is left desolate — to 
the immortal, it is left desolate, as the chambers of 
death. Death is there indeed; and it is the death of 
the soul ! 

But not to dwell longer upon particular forms of 
evil — of what, let us ask is the man guilty ? Who is it 
that is thus guilty? To say that he is noble in his 
nature, has been sometimes thought a dangerous laxity 
of doctrine, a proud assumption of merit, " a flattering 
unction" laid to the soul. But what kind of flattery 
is it, to say to a man, "you w r ere made but little lower 
than the angels; you might have been rising to the 
state of angels; and you have made — what have you 
made yourself ? What you are — a slave to the world 
— a slave to sense — a slave to masters baser than 
nature made them, to vitiated sense, and a corrupt and 
vain world !" Alas ! the irony implied in such flattery 
as this, is not needed to add poignancy to conviction. 
Boundless capacities shrunk to worse than infantile 
imbecility ! immortal faculties made toilers, for the 
vanities of a moment ! a glorious nature sunk to a wal- 
ling fellowship with evil !— alas ! it needs no exaggera- 
tion, but only simple statement, to make this a sad and 
afflicting case. Ill enough had it been for us if we had 
been made a depraved and degraded race. Well 



DISCOURSE III. 



57 



might the world even then, have sat down in sack- 
cloth, and sorrow ; though repentance could properly 
have made no part of its sorrow. But ill is it indeed, 
if we have made ourselves the sinful and unhappy 
beings that we are ; if we have given ourselves the 
w T ounds,which have brought languishment and debility 
and distress upon us ! What keen regret and remorse 
would any one of us feel, if in a fit of passion, he had 
destroyed his own right arm, or had implanted in it, a 
lingering wound ! And yet this, and this last espe- 
cially, is what everv offender does to some faculty of 
his nature. 

But this is not all. Ill enough had it been for us, if 
we had wrought out evil from nothing — if from a 
nature negative and indifferent to the result, we had 
brought forth the fruits of guilt and misery. But if we 
have wronged, if we have wrested from its true bias, 
a nature made for heavenly ends; if it was all beauti- 
ful in God's design and in our capacity, and we have 
made it all base, so that human nature, alas ! is but the 
by-word of the satirist, and a mark for the scorner ; if 
affections that might have been sweet and pure almost 
as the thoughts of angels, have been soured, and 
embittered, and turned to wrath, even in the homes 
of human kindness ; if the very senses have been bru- 
talized, and degraded, and changed from ministers of 
pleasure to inflicters of pain ; and yet more, if all the 
dread authority of reason has been denied, and all the 
sublime sanctity of conscience has been set at naught 
in this downward course ; and yet once more, if all 
these things — not chimerical, not visionary— are actu- 
ally witnessed, are matters of history, in ten thousand 
dwellings, around us, — ah ! if they are actually exist- 



58 



DISCOURSE III. 



ing, my brethren, in you and in me ! — and finally, if, 
uniting together, these causes of depravation have 
spread a flood of misery over the world, and there 
are sorrows and sighings and tears in all the habita- 
tions of men, all proceeding from this one cause ; 
then, I say, shall penitence be thought a strange and 
uncalled-for emotion? Shall it be thought strange 
that the first great demand of the Gospel, should be 
for repentance ? Shall it be thought strange that a 
man should sit down and weep bitterly for his sins 
— so strange that his acquaintances shall ask, " what 
hath he done?" or shall conclude that he is going 
mad w T ith fanaticism, or is on the point of losing his 
reason? No — truly; the dread infatuation is on the 
part of those who weep not! It is the negligent 
world, that is fanatical and frantic, in the pursuit of 
unholy indulgences and unsatisfying pleasures. It is 
such a world refusing to weep over its sins and 
miseries, that is fatally deranged. Repentance, my 
brethren, shall it be thought a virtue difficult of 
exercise? What can the world sorrow for, if not 
for the cause of all sorrow? What is to awaken 
grief, if not guilt and shame? Where shall the 
human heart pour out its tears, if not on those de- 
solations which have been of its own creating? 

How fitly is it written, and in language none too 
strong, that " the sacrifices of God — are a broken and 
contrite heart." And how encouragingly is it written 
also — "a broken and contrite heart, thou wilt not des- 
pise." Oh! Israel, saith again the sacred word,— "Oh, 
Israel! thou hast destroyed thyself; but in me is thine 
help found," 



59 



DISCOURSE IV. 

ON THE ADAPTATION WHICH RELIGION, TO BE TRUE 
AND USEFUL, SHOULD HAVE TO HUMAN NATURE. 



ISAIAH XLIL 3. A bruised reed shall he not break, 

AND THE SMOKING FLAX SHALL HE NOT QUENCH. 

This was spoken by prophecy of our Saviour, and 
is commonly considered as one of the many passages, 
which either prefigure or describe, the considefate 
and gracious adaptation of his religion, to the wants 
and weaknesses of human nature. This adaptation 
of Christianity to the wants of the mind, is, indeed, 
a topic that has been much, and very justly insisted on, 
as an evidence of its truth. 

I wish how r ever in the present discourse, to place 
this subject before you in a light somewhat different, 
perhaps, from that in which it has usually been viewed. 
If Christianity is suited to the w T ants of our nature, it 
is proper to consider what our nature needs, I shall 
therefore in the following discourse, give considerable 
prominence to this inquiry. The w T ants of our nature 
are various. I shall undertake to show in several re- 
spects, what a religion that is adapted to these wants, 
should he. In the same connection, I shall undertake to 
show that Christianity is such a religion. 



60 



DISCOURSE IV. 



This course of inquiry, I believe, will elicit some 
just views of religious truth, and will enable us to 
judge whether our own views of it are just. My object 
in it, is to present some temperate and comprehensive 
views of religion, which shall be seen at once to meet 
the necessities of our nature, and to accord with the 
spirit of the Christian religion. 

Nothing, it would seem, could be more obvious, than 
that a religion for human beings, should be suited to 
human beings ; not to angels, nor to demons ; not to a 
fictitious order of creatures; not to the inhabitants of 
some other world ; but to men — to men of this world, 
of this state and situation in w T hich we are placed, of 
this nature which is given us, — to men, with all their 
passions and affections warm and alive, and all their 
weaknesses and wants and fears, about them. And 
yefevident and reasonable as all this is, nothing has 
been more common, than for religion to fail of this 
very adaptation. Sometimes, it has been made a 
quality all softness, all mercy and gentleness — some- 
thing joyous and cheering, light and easy, as if it were 
designed for angels. At others, it has been clothed 
with features as dark and malignant, as if it belonged 
to fiends rather than to men. In no remote period, it 
has laid penances on men; as if their sinews and 
nerves were like the mails of steel, which they wore in 
those days. While the same religion, with strange 
inconsistency, lifted up the reins to their passions, as 
if it had been the age of Stoicism, instead of being the 
age of Chivalry. Alas! how little has there been 
in the religions of past ages ; how little in the preva- 
lent forms even of the Christian religion, to draw out, 
to expand, and brighten, the noble faculties of our 



DISCOURSE IV, 



61 



nature ! How many of the beautiful fruits of human 
affection, have withered away under the cold and 
blighting touch of a scholastic and stern theology! 
How many fountains of joy in the human heart have 
been sealed and closed up for ever, by the iron hand of 
a gloomy superstition ! How many bright spirits, — 
how many comely and noble natures, have been 
marred and crushed, by the artificial, the crude, and 
rough dealing of religious phrenzy and fanaticism ! 

It is suitable, then, it is expedient, to consider the 
adaptation which religion— to be true and useful — 
ought to have to human nature. It may serve to cor- 
rect errors. It may serve to guide those who are 
asking what ideas of religion they are to entertain , 
what sentiments they are to embrace ; what conduct 
to pursue. 

In entering upon this subject, let me offer one lead- 
ing observation, and afterwards proceed to some par- 
ticulars. 

I. I say, then, in the first place, that religion should 
be adapted to our whole nature. It should remember 
that we have understandings, and it should be a ra- 
tional religion. It should remember that we have 
feelings ; and it should be an earnest and fervent reli- 
gion. It should remember that our feelings revolt at 
violence, and are all alive to tenderness, and it should 
be gentle, ready to entreat, and full of mercy. It 
should remember too that our feelings naturally lean 
to self-indulgence, and it should be, in its gentleness, 
strict and solemn. It should in a due proportion ad- 
dress all our faculties. 

Most of the erroneous forms of religious sentiment 
that prevail in the Christian world, have arisen from 

6 



62 



DISCOURSE tVi 



the predominance that has been given to some one 
part of our nature, in the matters of spiritual concern- 
ment. Some religions have been all speculation, all 
doctrine, all theology ; and, as you might expect, they 
have been cold, barren, and dead. Others have been 
all feeling ; and have become visionary, wild, and 
extravagant. Some have been all sentiment ; and 
have wanted practical virtue. Others have been 
all practice ; their advocates have been exclaiming 
" w r orks ! works ! these are the evidence and test of 
all goodness." And so, w T ith certain exceptions and 
qualifications, they are. But this substantial charac- 
ter of religion, this hold which it really has, upon all 
the active principles of our nature, has been so much, 
so exclusively contended for, that religion has too 
often degenerated into a mere, superficial, decent, 
morality. 

Religion, then, let it be repeated, if it be true and 
just, addresses our whole nature. It addresses the 
active, and the contemplative in us ; reason and 
imagination ; thought and feeling. It is experience ; 
but it is conduct too : it is high meditation ; but then 
it is also humble virtue. It is excitement — it is earn- 
estness ; but no less truly, is it calmness. Let me 
dwell upon this last point a moment. It is not un- 
common to hear it said that excitement is a very bad 
thing, and that true religion is calm. And yet it 
would seem as if, by others, repose was regarded as 
deadly to the soul, and as if the only safety lay in a 
tremendous agitation. Now what saith our nature — 
for the being that is the very subject of this varying 
discipline may surely be allowed to speak — what 
saith our nature to these different advisers ? It says, 



DISCOURSE IV. 



63 



I think, that both are to a certain extent wrong, and 
both, to a certain extent right. That is to say, human 
nature requires, in their due proportion, both excite- 
ment and tranquillity. Our minds need a complex 
and blended influence ; need to be at once aroused 
and chastened, to be at the same time quickened and 
subdued ; need to be impelled, and yet guided ; need 
to be humbled no doubt, and that deeply, but not that 
only, as it seems to be commonly thought- — humbled, 
I say, and yet supported ; need to be bowed down in 
humility, and yet strengthened in trust ; need to be 
nerved to endurance at one time, and at another to 
be transported with joy.— Let religion, let the reason- 
able and gracious doctrine of Jesus Christ, come to 
us with these adaptations — generous to expand our 
affections, strict to restrain our passions ; plastic to 
mould our temper, strong, ay, strong to control our 
will. Let religion be thus welcomed to every true 
principle and passion of our nature. Let it touch all 
the springs of intellectual and of moral life. Let it pene- 
trate to every hidden recess of the soul, and bring forth 
all its powers, and enlighten, inspire, perfect them. 

I hardly need say, that the Christian religion is thus 
adapted to our w T hole nature. Its evidences address 
themselves to our sober judgment. Its precepts corn- 
mend themselves to our consciences. It imparts light 
to our understandings, and fervour to our affections. 
It speaks gently to our repentance ; but terribly to 
our disobedience. It really does that for us, which 
religion should do. It does arouse, and chasten, 
quicken and subdue, impel and guide, humble and yet 
support : it arms us with fortitude, and it transports 
us with joy. It is profitable for the life that now is, 
m**4 <or that which is to come. 



64 



DISCOURSE IV. 



II. But I must pass now, to observe, that there are 
more particular adaptations which religion should 
have, and which the Gospel actually has, to the con- 
dition of human nature, and to the various degrees of 
its improvement. 

One of the circumstances of our moral condition is 
danger. Religion then should be a guardian, and a 
vigilant guardian ; and let us be assured that the Gos- 
pel is such. Such emphatically do we read. If we 
cannot bear a religion that admonishes us, watches 
over us, warns us, restrains us ; let us be assured that 
we cannot bear a religion that will save us. Religion 
should be the keeper of the soul ; and without such a 
keeper, in the slow and undermining process of 
temptation, or amidst the sudden and strong assaults 
of passion, it will be overcome and lost. 

Again, the human condition is one of weakness. 
There are weak points, where religion should be sta- 
tioned to support and strengthen us. Points, did I say? 
Are we not encompassed with weakness ? Where, in 
the whole circle of our spiritual interests and affec- 
tions, are we not exposed, and vulnerable ? Where 
have we not need to set up the barriers of habit, and 
to build the strongest defences, with which resolutions 
and vows and prayers can surround us ? Where, and 
wherein, I ask again, is any man safe ? What virtue 
of any man is secure from frailty ? What strong pur- 
pose of his is not liable to failure ? What affection of 
his heart can say, " I have strength, I am established, 
and nothing can move me." How weak is man in 
trouble, in perplexity, in doubt — how weak in afflic- 
tion, or when sickness bows the spirit, or when ap- 
proaching death is unloosing all the bands of his pride 



DISCOURSE IV. 



65 



and self-reliance ! And whose spirit does not some- 
times faint under its intrinsic weakness, under its ?ia- 
tive frailty, and the burthen and pressure of its necessi- 
ties ? Religion then should bring supply, and support, 
and strength to the soul ; and the Gospel does bring 
supply, and support, and strength. And it thus meets 
a universal want. Every mind wants the stability 
which principle gives, wants the comfort which piety 
gives : w r ants it continually, in all the varying experi- 
ence of life. 

I have said, also, that religion should be adapted to 
the various degrees of mental improvement, and I 
may add, to the diversities of temperament. Now, 
there are sluggish natures that need to be aroused. 
All the machinery of spiritual terror can scarce be 
too much to arouse some persons ; though it may in- 
deed be very improperly applied. But on the con- 
trary, there are minds so excitable and sensitive, that 
religion should come to them with all its sobering and 
tranquillizing influence. In how many cases do we 
witness this ! How 7 many are there whose minds are 
chilled, or stupified by denunciation ! How many are 
repelled by severity, or crushed by a weight of fear 
and anxiety ! How many such are there, that need 
a helping hand to be stretched out to them ; that need 
to be raised, and soothed, and comforted ; that need 
to be won with gentleness, and cheered with pro- 
mises. The Gospel has terrors, indeed, but it is not 
all terror; and its most awful rebukes soften into 
pity, over the fearful, the dejected, the anxious, and 
humble. 

But the most striking circumstance in the adapta- 
tion of religion to the different degrees of mental im- 

6* 



66 



DISCOURSE IV. 



provement, is its character as supplying not merely 
the general necessities, but the conscious wants of the 
mind. There may be some who have never been 
conscious of these intrinsic w r ants, though they spring 
from human nature and must be sooner or later felt. 
To the very young, or to the unreflecting, religion can 
be scarcely any thing more, perhaps, than direction. 
It says, " do this, and do that ; and refrain from this 
gratification, and beware of that danger." It is chiefly 
a set of rules and precepts to them. Speak to them 
of religion as the grand resort of the mind, as that 
which meets its inward necessities, supplies its deep- 
felt wants, fills its capacious desires ; and they do not 
w r ell understand you ; or they do not understand, why 
this view of the subject should be so interesting to 
you. But another mind shall be bound to the Gospel 
by nothing so much as by its wants. It craves some- 
thing, thus vast, glorious, infinite, and eternal. It 
sought — sought long, perhaps, and anxiously — for 
something thus satisfying ; and it has found what it 
long and painfully sought, in the teachings of Jesus, 
in the love of God, in that world of spiritual thoughts 
and objects which the great teacher has opened, in 
that solemn and majestic vision of immortality which 
he has brought to light. To such a religion the soul 
clings w r ith a peace and satisfaction never to be ex- 
pressed, — never to be uttered. It says, "to whom 
shall I go — to whom shall I go ? thou, O blessed reli- 
gion, minister and messenger from heaven ! — thou hast 
the words of eternal life, of eternal joy!" The lan- 
guage which proclaims the sufficiency of religion, 
which sets forth the attraction and the greatness of 
it, as supplying the great intellectual want, is no chi- 



DISCOURSE IV. 



67 



merical language ; it is not merely a familiar lan- 
guage ; but it is intimate with the deepest and the 
dearest feelings of the heart. 

In descending to the more specific applications of 
the principle of religion to human nature, I must con- 
tent myself for the present, with one further observa- 
tion; and that is, that it meets and mingles with all 
the varieties of natural temperament and disposition. 

Religion should not propose to break up all the di- 
versities of individual character ; and Christianity does 
not propose this. It did not propose this, even w r hen 
it first broke upon the world with manifestation and 
miracle. It allowed the rash and forward Peter, the 
timid and doubting Thomas, the mild and affectionate 
John, the resolute and fervent Paul, still to retain all 
their peculiarities of character. The way of becoming 
religious, or interested in religion, was not the same to 
all. There was Cornelius, the Pagan, whose " alms 
and prayers were accepted and there were others, 
who became Christians, without "so much as hearing 
that there was any Holy Ghost. " There were the im- 
mediate disciples of our Lord, who, through a course 
of gradual teaching, came to apprehend his spiritual 
kingdom; and there was Paul, to whom this knowledge 
came by miracle, and with a light brighter than the 
sun. There was the terrified jailer who fell down 
trembling and said, "what must I do to be saved?" 
and there was the cautious and inquiring Nicodemus, 
who, as if he had been reflecting on the matter, said, 
"we know that thou art a teacher come from God, for 
no man can do these miracles that thou doest, except 
God be with him/*' 

Now r it is painful to observe at this day, how little 



68 



DISCOURSE IV. 



of this individuality there is, in the prevailing and 
popular experience of religion. A certain process is 
pointed out, a certain result is described: particular 
views and feelings are insisted on. as the only right 
and true state of mind: and every man strives to bring 
himself through the required process to the given re- 
sult. It is common, indeed, to observe, that if you read 
one account of a conversion, one account of a reli- 
gious excitement, you have all. I charge not this to any 
particular set of opinions, though it may be found to 
have been connected with some creeds more than with 
others: but it results too from the very weakness of 
human nature. One man leans on the experience of 
another, and it contributes to his satisfaction, of course, 
to have the same experience. How refreshing is it, 
amidst this dull and artificial uniformity, to meet with 
a man w r hose religion is his own; who has thought and 
felt for himself: who has not propped up his hopes on 
other men's opinions: who has been willing to com- 
mune with the spirit of religion and of God. alone, 
and who brings forth to you the fruits of his experi- 
ence, fresh and original, and is not much concerned for 
your judgment of them, provided they have nourished 
and comforted himself. I would not desire that every 
man should view all the matters of piety, as I do: but 
would rather that every man should bring: the results 
of his own individual conviction, to aid the common 
cause of right knowledge and judgment. 

In the diversities of character and situation thai 
exist, there will naturally be diversities of religious 
experience. Some, as I have said before, are consti- 
tutionally lively, and others serious : some are ardent, 
and others moderate: some, also, are inclined to be 



DISCOURSE IV. 



69 



social, and others to be retired. Knowledge and ig- 
norance, too, and refinement and rudeness of charac- 
ter, are cases to be provided for. And a true and 
thorough religion — this is the special observation I 
wish to make on the diversities of character — a true 
and thorough religion when it enters the mind will 
show itself by its naturally blending and mingling with 
the mind as it is; it will sit easily upon the character; 
it will take forms in accordance, not with the bad. but 
with the constitutional tempers and dispositions it 
finds in its subjects. 

Nay, I will say yet further, that religion ought not to 
repress the natural buoyancy of our affections, the in- 
nocent gaiety of the heart. True religion was not 
designed to do this. Undoubtedly, it will discriminate. 
It will check what is extravagant in us, all tumultuous 
and excessive joy about acquisitions of little conse- 
quence, or of doubtful utility to us: it will correct 
what is deformed: it will uproot what is hurtful. But 
there is a native buoyancy of the heart, the meed of 
youth, or of health, which is a sensation of our animal 
nature, a tendency of our being. This, true religion 
does not propose to withstand. It does not war against 
our nature. As well should the cultivator of a beau- 
tiful and variegated garden, cut up all the flowers in it, 
or lay weights and encumbrances on them, lest they 
should be too flourishing and fair. Religion is designed 
for the culture of our natural faculties, not for their 
eradication! 

It would be easy now, did the time permit, to illus- 
trate the views which have been presented, by a refer- 
ence to the teachings of our Saviour. He did not 
address one passion or part of our nature alone, or 



70 



DISCOURSE IV. 



chiefly. There was no one manner of address; and 
we feel sure as we read, that there was no one tone. 
He did not confine himself to any one class of subjects. 
He was not always speaking of death, nor of judg- 
ment, nor of eternity ; frequently and solemnly as he 
spoke of them. He was not always speaking of the 
state of the sinner, nor of repentance and the new 
heart; though on these subjects too he delivered his 
solemn message. There was a varied adaptation, in 
his discourses, to every condition of mind, and every 
duty of life, and every situation in which his hearers 
were placed. Neither did the preaching of our Sa- 
viour possess, exclusively, any one moral complexion. 
It was not terror only, nor promise only ; it was not 
exclusively severity nor gentleness ; but it was each 
one of them in its place, and all of them always sub- 
dued to the tone of perfect sobriety. At one time we 
hear him saying, with lofty self-respect "neither tell I 
you by what authority I do these things:" — at another 
with all the majesty of the Son of God, we hear him, in 
reply to the fatal question of the judgment-hall, " Art 
thou the Christ?" — we hear him say, "lam; and 
hereafter ye shall see the Son of man seated on the 
throne of power and coming in the clouds of heaven." 
But it is the same voice that says, " come unto me, all 
ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give 
you rest; take my yoke which is easy and my burden 
which is light, and ye shall find rest to your souls." At 
one time he speaks in the language of terror, and says, 
"fear not them who after that they have killed the 
body, have no more that they can do; but fear Him 
who is able to cast both soul and body into hell, yea, 
I say unto you, fear him." But at another time, the 



DISCOURSE IV. 71 

awful admonisher breaks out into the pathetic excla- 
mation, "Oh! Jerusalem, Jerusalem! how often would 
I have gathered your children, even as a hen gathereth 
her brood under her wings, but ye would not," 

If I might be permitted now, to add a suggestion of 
an advisory nature, it would be in the language of an 
apostle ; " let your moderation be known to all men." 
The true religion, the true excellence of character, 
requires that we should hold all the principles and af- 
fections of our nature in a due subordination, and pro- 
portion to each other ; that we should subdue all the 
clamoring voices of passion and desire, of fear and 
hope, of joy and sorrow r , to complete harmony ; that 
we should regard and cultivate our nature as a whole. 
Almost all error is some truth, carried to excess, or 
diminished from its proper magnitude. Almost all sin 
is some good or useful principle, suffered to be immo- 
derate and ungovernable, or suppressed and denied 
its proper influence and action. Let, then, moderation 
be a leading trait of our virtue and piety. This is not 
dulness. Nothing is farther from dulness. And no- 
thing, surely, is more beautiful in character, or more 
touching, than to see a lively and intense sensibility 
controlled by the judgment; strong passions subdued 
and softened by reflection; and on the other hand, to 
find a vigorous, clear and manly understanding, quick- 
ened by a genuine fervor and enthusiasm. Nothing is 
more wise or more admirable in action, than to be re- 
solute and yet calm, earnest and yet self-possessed, 
decided and yet modest; to contend for truth and 
right with meekness and charity; to go forward in a 
good cause, without pretension, to retire with dignity; 
to give without pride, and to withhold without mean- 



72 



DISCOURSE IV. 



ness; to rejoice with moderation, and to suffer with 
patience. And nothing I may add, was more remark- 
able in the character of our Saviour, than this perfect 
sobriety, consistency, self-control. 

This, therefore, is the perfection of character. This 
will always be found, I believe, to be a late stage in 
the progress of religious worth from its first beginnings. 
It is comparatively easy to be one thing and that alone ; 
to be all zeal, or all reasoning; all faith or all action; 
all rapture, or all chilling and captious fault-finding. 
Here novices begin. Thus far they may easily go. 
Thus far men may go, whose character is the result 
of temperament and not of culture : of headlong pro- 
pensity, and not of careful and conscientious discipline. 
It is easy, for the bruised reed to be broken. It is 
easy, for the smoking flax to be quenched. It is easy 
to deal rashly and rudely with the matters of religious 
and virtuous experience : to make a hasty effort, to 
have a paroxysm of emotion, to give way to a feverish 
and transient feeling, and then to smother and quench 
all the rising purposes of a better life. But true religion 
comes to us with a wiser and more considerate adap- 
tation, — to sustain and strengthen the bruised reed of 
human weakness; to fan the rising flame of virtuous 
and holy purposes: it comes to revive our failing cour- 
age, to restrain our wayward passions. It will not 
suffer us to go on with our fluctuations and our fan- 
cies; with our transient excitements, and momentary 
struggles. It will exert a more abiding, a more ra- 
tional influence. It will make us more faithful and per- 
severing. It will lay its hand on the very energies of 
our nature, and will take the lead and control, the form- 
ing and perfecting of them May we find its real and 



DISCOURSE IVa 



73 



gracious power! May it lead us in the true, the firm, 
the brightening path of the just, till it brings us to the 
perfect day ! 

Oh! my brethren, we sin against our own peace, we 
have no mercy upon ourselves, when we neglect such 
a religion as this. It is the only wisdom, the only sound- 
ness, the only consistency and harmony of character, 
the only peace and blessedness of mind. We should 
not have our distressing doubts and fears; we should 
not be so subject as we are to the distracting influences 
of passion, or of the world without us, if we had 
yielded our hearts wholly to the spirit and religion of 
Jesus. It is a religion adapted to us all. To every 
affection, to every state of mind, troubled or joyous, to 
every period of life, it would impart the very influence 
that we need. How surely would it guide our youth, 
and how T would it temper, and soften, and sanctify all 
the fervors of youthful affection ! How w T ell would it 
support our age, making it youthful again with the 
fervent hope of immortality ! How would it lead us, 
too, in all the paths of earthly care, and business, and 
labour, turning the brief and weary courses of worldly 
toil into the ways that are everlasting! How faithfully 
and how calmly would it conduct us to the everlasting 
abodes ! And how well, in fine, does he, of whom it 
was prophesied that he should not break the bruised 
reed nor quench the smoking flax — how well does he 
meet that gracious character, when he says, — shall we 
not listen to him? — "come unto me all ye that labour 
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest: take my 
yoke which is easy, and my burden, which is light ; 
learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye 
shall find rest unto your souls." 

7 



74 



DISCOURSE V. 

THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO HUMAN NATURE. 



PROVERBS, VIIL 4. Unto you, O men, I call ; and my 

VOICE IS TO THE SONS OF MEN. 

The appeal of religion to human nature, the deep 
wisdom of its instructions to the human heart, the lan- 
guage of power and of cheering with which it is fitted 
to address the inmost soul of man, is never to be under- 
stood, perhaps, till our nature is exalted far beyond its 
present measure. When the voice of wisdom and 
purity shall find an inward wisdom and purity to which 
it can speak, it will be received with a welcome and 
gladness, with a joy beyond all other joy, such as no 
tongue of eloquence has ever expressed, nor the heart 
of worldly sensibility ever yet conceived. It is, there- 
fore, with the most unfeigned diffidence, with the most 
distinct consciousness that my present labour must be 
incipient and imperfect, that I enter upon this great 
theme — the appeal of religion to human nature. 

What ought it to be? What has it been? These 
are the inquiries which I shall pursue. Nor shall I 
attempt to keep them altogether separate in the dis- 
cussion ; since, both the defects and the duties of reli- 
gious instruction may often be best exhibited under 
the same head of discourse. Neither shall I labour to 



DISCOURSE V. 



75 



speak of religion under that abstract and figurative 
character with which wisdom is personified in the 
context, though that may be occasionally convenient ; 
but whether it be the language of individual reason, or 
conscience ; whether it be the voice of the parent, or 
of the preacher; whether it be the language of forms 
or of institutions, I would consider how religion has 
appealed, and how it ought to have appealed, to 
human nature. 

The topics of discourse, under which I shall pursue 
these inquiries, are the following — in what character 
should religion address us? — to what in us should it 
speak? — and how should it deliver its message? 
That is to say — the substance, the subject, and the 
spirit of the appeal, are the topics of our inquiry. I 
cannot, of course, pursue these inquiries beyond the 
point to which the immediate object of my discourse, 
will carry them ; and I am willing to designate that point, 
at once, by saying, that, the questions are, whether the 
character in which religion is to appeal to us, be moral, 
or not; whether that in us to which it chiefly appeals 
should be the noblest or the basest part of our nature; 
and finally, whether the manner and spirit of its ap- 
peal should be that of confidence or distrust, of friend- 
ship or hatred. 

I. And with regard to the first question, the answer, 
of course, is, that the character in which religion should 
address us is purely moral. As a moral principle, as 
a principle of rectitude, it must speak to us. Institu- 
tions, rites, commands, threatenings, promises — all 
forms of appeal must contain this essence; they must 
be moral ; they must be holy. 

It may be thought strange that I should insist upon 



76 



DISCOURSE V. 



a point so obvious, but let me crave your patience. 
What is the centre, the first principle, the essence, of 
all that is moral, of all that is holy? I answer, it is 
goodness. This is the primary element of all virtue. 
Excellence, rectitude, righteousness, every virtue, 
every grace, is but a modification of the one, essential, 
all-embracing principle of love. This is strictly, meta- 
physically true ; it is the result of the most severe, 
philosophical, analysis. It is also the truth of scrip- 
ture. The character of Supreme perfection is sum- 
med up in this one attribute : " God is love." This 
is the very glory of God. For when an ancient ser- 
vant desired to " see his glory," the answer to the prayer 
was, that "he caused all his goodness to pass before 
him." 

The character, then, in which religion should ap- 
peal to human nature, is that of simple and essential 
goodness. This, the moral nature of man is made to 
understand and to feel; and nothing else but this. 
This character, doubtless, has various expressions. 
Sometimes it takes the forms of command and threat- 
ening; but still these must speak, in the name of good- 
ness. If command and threatening stand up to speak 
for themselves — alone — dissociated from that love 
which gives them all their moral character — then, ] 
say, that the moral nature of man cannot receive their 
message. A brute can receive that; a dog or a horse 
can yield to mere command or menace. But the 
moral nature can yield to nothing which is not moral ; 
and that which gives morality to every precept and 
warning is the goodness which is breathed into them. 
Divest them of this, and they are not even religious. 
Nor are those persons religious, who pay obedience to 



DISCOURSE V. 



77 



command, as command, and without any considera- 
tion of its moral nature, of the intrinsic and essential 
sanction which goodness bestows on the command. 

The voice of religion, then, must be as the voice of 
goodness. Conceive of every thing good and lovely, 
of every thing morally excellent and admirable, of 
every thing glorious and godlike, and when these speak 
to you, know that religion speaks to you. Whether 
that voice comes from the page of genius, or from the 
record of heroic and heavenly virtue, or from its living 
presence and example, or from the bosom of silent 
reverie, the innermost sanctuary of meditation — 
whatever of holy and beautiful speaks to you, and 
through what medium soever, it comes, it is the voice 
of religion. All excellence, in other words, is religion. 

But here we meet with what seems to me, and so 
must I denominate it, in justice to my own apprehen- 
sions, — a stupendous error; an error, prevalent, I 
believe, and yet fatal, so far as it goes, to all religious 
emotion. All excellence, I said, is religion. But the 
great error is, that, in the popular apprehension, these 
things are not identified. In other words, religion and 
goodness are not identified in the general mind: they 
are not held by most men to be the same thing. This 
error, I say, if it exist, is fatal to genuine religious emo- 
tion, because men cannot heartily love, as a moral 
quality, any thing which is not, to them, goodness. 
Or, to state this position as a simple truism, they 
cannot love any thing which is not, to them, love- 
liness. 

Now I am willing, nay, I earnestly wish, that with 

regard to the real nature of religion, there should be 

the utmost discrimination: and I will soon speak to 

7# 



78 



DISCOURSE V. 



that point. But I say, for the present — I say, again, 
that religion is made, intrinsically and altogether a dif- 
ferent thing, from what is commonly regarded as love- 
liness of character, and therefore that it speaks to men, 
speaks to human nature, not as goodness but as some 
other thing. 

For proof of this, I ask you, first, to look at that 
phraseology by which religion is commonly described, 
and to compare it with the language by which men 
express those lovely qualities that they most admire. 
See, then, how they express their admiration. You 
hear them speak of one who is amiable, lovely, fasci- 
nating ; of one who is honourable, upright, generous. 
You hear them speak of a good parent, of an affec- 
tionate child, of a worthy citizen, of an obliging neigh- 
bour, of a kind and faithful friend, of a man whom 
they emphatically call " a noble man f and you observe 
a fervour of language and a glow of pleasure while 
these things are said; a kindling animation in the tone 
and the countenance, which inspires you with a kin- 
dred sympathy and delight. But mark, now, with how 
different a language and manner, the qualities of reli- 
gion are described. The votary of religion is said to 
be very "serious," perhaps, but with a look and tone 
as if a much worse thing were stated ; or you hear it 
said of him, that he is "a pious man," or, he is "a very 
experienced person," or he is "a Christian if evei 
there was one ;" but it seems, even when the religious 
themselves say all this, as if it were an extorted and 
cold homage ; as if religion were something very 
proper indeed, very safe perhaps, but not very agree- 
able certainly; there is no glow, there is no animation, 
and there is generally no sympathy. 



DISCOURSE V. 



79 



In further proof that religion is not identified with 
the beautiful and admirable in character, I might turn 
from the language in common use, to actual experi- 
ence. Is religion, I ask — not the religion of poetry, 
but that which exists in the actual conceptions of men, 
the religion of professors, the religion that is commonly 
taught from our pulpits — is it usually regarded as the 
loveliest attribute of the human character? When your 
minds glow with the love of excellence, when you 
weep over the examples of goodness, is this excellence, 
is this goodness which you admire, religion? Consult 
the books of fiction, open the pages of history, resort 
to the stores of our classical literature, and say, if the 
religious man of our times appears in them at all ; or 
if, when he does appear in them, it is he that chiefly 
draws your affection? Say, rather, if it is not some 
personage, whether of a real or fictitious tale, that is 
destitute of every distinctive quality of the popular reli- 
gion, who kindles your enthusiasm? So true is this, 
that many who have held the prevailing ideas of reli- 
gion, have regarded, and on their principles, have 
justly regarded, the literature of taste and of fiction, as 
one of the most insidious temptations that could befall 
them. No, I repeat, the images of loveliness that 
dwell in the general mind, w 7 hether of writers or 
readers, have not been the images of religion. And 
thus it has happened, that the men of taste, and of 
a lively and ardent sensibility, have, by no means, 
yielded their proportion of votaries ro religion. The 
dull, the gloomy, the sick, the aged, have been reli- 
gious; not — i. e. not to the same extent — the young 
and the joyous in their first admiration and their first 
love ; not the intellectual and refined in the enthusiasm 



80 



DISCOURSE V. 



of their feelings and in the glory of their imagina- 
tions. 

But let me appeal once more to experience. I ask 
then — do you love religion? I ask you, I ask any one, 
who will entertain the question — do you love religion? 
Does the very word carry a sound that is agreeable, 
delightful to you? Does it stand for something attrac- 
tive and lovely? Are the terms that describe religion — 
grace, holiness, repentance, faith, godliness — are they 
invested with a charm to your heart, to your imagina- 
tion, to your whole mind? Now, to this question, I am 
sure, that many would answer freely and decidedly, 
"No, religion is not a thing that we love. We cannot 
say that we take that sort of interest in it. We do not 
profess to be religious, and, — honestly — we do not 
wish to be." What ! I might answer in return — do you 
love nothing that is good ? Is there nothing in charac- 
ter, nothing in attribute, no abstract charm, that you 
love? "Far otherwise" — would be the reply. "There 
are many persons that we love : there are many charac- 
ters in history, in biography, in romance, that are 
delightful to us; they are so noble, so beautiful." 

How different then — do we not see — are the ideas 
of religion, from the images of loveliness that dwell in 
many minds ! They are actually the same in principle. 
All excellence has the same foundation. There are 
not, and cannot be, two different and opposite kinds 
of rectitude. The moral nature of man, deranged 
though it be, is not deranged so far as to admit this ; 
and yet how evident is it, that religion is not identified 
with the excellence that men love ! 

But I hear it said, " the images of loveliness which 
dwell in the general mind, are not indeed the images 



DISCOURSE V. 



81 



of religion, and ought not to be ; for they are false, 
and would utterly mislead us." Grant, now, for the 
sake of argument, that this were true, and whom 
would the admission benefit ? What would follow 
from the admission? Why, this clearly; that of being 
religious, no power or possibility is within human 
reach. For men must love that which seems to them 
to be lovely. If that which seems to them to be 
lovely is not religion — if religion is something else, 
and something altogether different, religion, it is clear 
they cannot love. That is to say, on this hypothesis, 
they cannot be religious ; they cannot, by any possi- 
bility, but that in which all things are possible with 
God ; they cannot by any possibility that comes 
within the range of the powers and affections, that 
God has given them. 

But it is not true that men's prevailing and consti- 
tutional perceptions of moral beauty are false. It is 
not true, that is to say, that their sense of right and 
wrong is false ; that, their conscience is a treacherous 
and deceitful guide. It is not true ; and yet, doubt- 
less, there is a discrimination to be made. Their per- 
ceptions may be, and undoubtedly often are, low, and 
inadequate, and marred with error. And therefore 
when w T e use the w 7 ords — excellent, admirable, love- 
ly — there is danger that to many, they will not mean 
all that they ought to mean, that men's ideas of these 
qualities will not be as deep, and thorough, and strict, 
as they ought to be ; while, if w T e confine ourselves to 
such terms for religious qualities — as serious, holy, 
godly — the danger is that they will be just as errone- 
ous, besides being technical, barren, and uninteresting. 

There is a difficulty on this account attending the 



82 



DISCOURSE V. 



language of the pulpit, which every reflecting man, in 
the use of it, must have felt. But the truth, amidst all 
these discriminations, I hold to be this ; that the uni- 
versal and constitutional perceptions of moral loveli 
ness which mankind entertain, are radically just. x\nd 
therefore the only right doctrine and the only rational 
direction to be addressed to men, on this subject is to 
the following effect ; " whatever your conscience dic- 
tates ; whatever your mind clothes with moral beauty; 
that to you is right ; be that to you, religion. Nothing 
else can be, if you think rationally ; and therefore let 
that be to you the religion that you love ; and let it 
be your endeavour, continually to elevate and purify 
your conceptions of all virtue and goodness." Nay, 
if I knew a man w T hose ideas of excellence were ever 
so low, I should still say to him — revere those ideas ; 
they are all that you can revere. The very appre- 
hensions you entertain of the glory of God cannot go 
beyond your ideas of excellence. iUl that you can 
worship, then, is the most perfect excellence you can 
conceive of. Be that, therefore, the object of your 
reverence. However low, however imperfect it is, 
still be that to you the image of the Divinity. On that 
scale of your actual ideas, however humble, let your 
thoughts rise to higher and higher perfection. 

I say, however low. And grant now that the moral 
conceptions of a man are very low ; yet if they are 
the highest he has, is there any thing higher that he 
can follow ? Will it be said there are the Scriptures ? 
But the aid of the Scriptures is already presupposed 
in the case. They contribute to form the very per- 
ceptions in question. They are a light to man, only 
gs they kindle a light within him. They do not, and 



DISCOURSE V. 



83 



they cannot mean more to any man, than he under- 
stands, than he perceives, them to mean. His percep- 
tions of their intent, then, he must follow. He cannot 
follow the light, any farther than he sees it. 

But it may be said that many of the ignorant and 
debased see very little light ; that their perceptions 
are very low ; that they admire qualities and actions 
of a very questionable character. What then ? You 
must begin with them where they are ! But let us not 
grant too much of this. Go to the most degraded 
being you know, and tell him some story of noble dis- 
interestedness, or touching charity ; tell him the story 
of Howard, or Swartz, or Oberlin ; and will he not 
approve — will he not admire ? Then tell him, I say — 
as the summing up of this head of my discourse — tell 
him that this is religion. Tell him that this is a faint 
shadow, to the infinite brightness of divine love — a 
feeble and marred image, compared with the infinite 
benignity and goodness of God ! 

II. My next observation is, on the principles to be 
addressed. And, on this point, I say in general, that 
religion should appeal to the good in man, against the 
bad. That there is good in man — not fixed goodness 
— but that there is something good in man, is evident 
from the fact that he has an idea of goodness. For if 
the matter be strictly and philosophically traced, it 
will be found, that the idea of goodness can spring 
from nothing else but experience — from the inward 
sense of it. 

But not to dwell on this — my principal object under 
this head of discourse is to maintain, that religion 
should appeal chiefly, not to the lowest, but to the 
highest of our moral sentiments. 



84 



DISCOURSE V. 



There are sentiments in our nature to which pow- 
erful appeal can be made, and they are emphatically, 
its high and honourable sentiments. If you wished to 
speak in tones that should thrill through the very heart 
of the world, you would speak to these before all 
others. Almost all the richest poetry, the most admi- 
rable, the fine arts, the most popular and powerful 
eloquence in the world have addressed these moral, 
and generous sentiments of human nature. And I 
have observed it as quite remarkable, indeed — be- 
cause it is an exception to the general language of the 
pulpit — that all the most eloquent preachers have 
made great use of these very sentiments — they have 
appealed to the sense of beauty, to generosity and 
tenderness, to the natural conscience, the natural 
sense of right and wrong, of honour and shame. 

To these, then, if you would move the human heart, 
you w r ould apply yourself. You would appeal to the 
indignation at wrong, at oppression, or treachery, or 
meanness, or to the natural admiration which men 
feel for virtuous and noble deeds. If you would touch 
the most tender feelings of the human heart, vou 
would still make your appeal to these sentiments, 
You would represent innocence borne down and 
crushed by the arm of power; you w T ould describe 
patriotism labouring and dying for its country. Or, 
you would describe a parent's love with all its cares 
and anxieties, and its self-sacrificing devotion. Or, 
you would pourtray filial affection watching over infir- 
mity, and relieving pain, and striving to payback some- 
thing of the mighty debt of filial gratitude. Look 
abroad in the world, or look back upon the history of 
ages past, and ask for those on whom the enthusiasm 



DISCOURSE V. 



85 



and pride and affection of men love to dwell. Evoke 
from the shadows of the times gone by, their mighty, 
their cherished forms, around which the halo of ever- 
lasting admiration dwells : and what are they ? Be- 
hold the names of the generous, the philanthropic, 
and the good- — behold, the voice of martyred blood 
on the altars of cruelty, or on the hills of freedom, 
for ever rising from the earth — eternal testimonies to 
the right and noble sentiments of mankind. 

To these, then, religion ought to have appealed. 
In these sentiments, it ought to have laid its founda- 
tion, and on these it ought to have built up its power. 
But has it done so ? Could it do so, while it held hu- 
man nature to be utterly depraved ? 

But there is a farther question. Can any religion, 
Christian or heathen, in fact, entirely discard human 
nature ? Certainly not. Must not every religion that 
speaks to man, speak to something human ? Undoubt- 
edly, it must. What then is the end of all this zeal 
against human nature? Has it not been, I ask, to ad- 
dress the worst parts of it ? There has been no scru- 
ple, about appealing to fear and anxiety. But of the 
sentiments of admiration, of the sense of beauty in the 
human heart, of the deep love for friends and kindred 
that lingers there, religion has been afraid. Grant, 
indeed, that these sentiments and affections have been 
too low. It was the very business of religion to elevate 
them. But while it has failed to do this, in the degree 
it ought, how often has it spread a rack of torture for 
our fear and solicitude ! How often has it been an 
engine of superstition, an inflicter of penance, a 
minister of despondency and gloom ; an instrument 
effective, as if it were framed on purpose, to keep 

8 



86 



DISCOURSE V. 



down all natural buoyancy, generosity, and liberal 
aspiration ! How often has religion frowned upon the 
nature, that it came to save ; and instead of winning 
its confidence and love, has incurred its hatred and 
scorn ; and instead of having drawn it into the blessed 
path of peace and trust, has driven it to indifference, 
infidelity, or desperation ! 

And how lamentable is it ! Here is a world of beings, 
filled with enthusiasm, filled with a thousand warm 
and kindling affections ; the breasts of millions are 
fired with admiration for generous and heroic virtues ; 
and when the living representative of these virtues 
appears among us — a Washington, or some illustrious 
compeer in excellence — crowded cities go forth to 
meet him, and nations lift up the voice of gratitude. 
How remarkable in the human character is this moral 
admiration ! What quickening thoughts does it awa- 
ken in solitude ! What tears does it call forth, when 
we think of the prisons, the hospitals, the desolate 
dwellings, visited and cheered by the humane and 
merciful ! With what ecstasy does it swell the human 
breast, when the vision of the patriotic, the patiently 
suffering, the magnanimous and the good, passes be- 
fore us ! In all this the inferior race has no share. 
They can fear ; but esteem, veneration, the sense of 
moral loveliness, they know not. These are the pre- 
rogatives of man — the gifts of nature to him — the gifts 
of God. But how little, alas ! have they been called 
into the service of his religion ! How little have their 
energies been enlisted in that which is the great con- 
cern of man ! 

And all this is the more to be lamented, because 
those who are most susceptible of feeling and of en- 



DISCOURSE V. 



87 



thusiasm, most need the power and support of religion. 
The dull, the earthly, the children of sense, the mere 
plodders in business, the mere votaries of gain, may 
do, or may think they can do, without it. But how 
many beings are there, how many spirits of a finer 
mould, and of a loftier bearing, and of more intellec- 
tual wants, who, when the novelty of life is worn off, 
when the enthusiasm of youth has been freely lavished, 
when changes come on, when friends die, and there 
is care and weariness, and solitude to press upon the 
heart — how many are there, then, that sigh bitterly 
after some better thing, after something greater, and 
more permanent, and more satisfying ! And how do 
they need to be told that religion is that better thing ; 
that it is not a stranger to their wants and sorrows ; 
that its voice is speaking and pleading within them, in 
the cry of their lamentation, and in the felt burthen of 
their necessity ; that religion is the home of their far- 
wandering desires ; the rest, the heaven, of their long- 
troubled affections ! How do they need to hear the 
voice that says, " unto you, O men — men of care, and 
fear, and importunate desire — do I call; and my voice 
is to the sons of men — to the children of frailty, and 
trouble, and sorrow!" 

III. Let us now proceed to consider, in the third 
place, and finally, from the relation between the power 
that speaks and the principle addressed, in what man- 
ner the one should appeal to the other. 

The relation, then, between them, I say, is a rela- 
tion of amity. But let me explain. I do not say, of 
course, that there is amity between right and wrong. 
I do not say, that there is amity between pure good- 
ness, and w r hat is evil in man. But that w T hich is 



88 



DISCOURSE V. 



wrong and evil in man, is the perversion of something 
that is good and right. To that good and right, I con- 
tend that religion should speak. To that it must 
speak, for there is nothing else, that can hear it. We 
do not appeal to abstractions of evil in man, because 
there are no such things in him; but we appeal to af- 
fections ; to affections in which there is a mixture of 
good and evil. To the good, then, I say, w T e must 
appeal, against the evil. And every preacher of 
righteousness, may boldly and fearlessly approach the 
human heart, in the confidence that however it may 
defend itself against him, however high it may build its 
batdements of habit and its towers of pride, he has 
friends in the very citadel. 

I say, then, that religion should address the true 
moral nature of man, as its friend, and not as its 
enemy; as its lawful subject, and not as an alien or a 
traitor; and should address it, therefore, with gene- 
rous and hopeful confidence, and not with cold and 
repulsive distrust. What is it, in this nature to which 
religion speaks? To reason, to conscience, to the 
love of happiness, to the sense of the infinite and the 
beautiful, to aspirations after immortal good ; to natural 
sensibility, also, to the love of kindred and country 
and home. All these are in this nature, and they are 
all fitted to render obedience to religion. In this obe- 
dience they are satisfied, and indeed they can never be 
satisfied without it. 

Admit, now, that these powers are ever so sadly 
perverted and corrupted, still, no one maintains, that 
they are destroyed. Neither is their testimony to 
what is right ever, in any case, utterly silenced. Should 
they not, then, be appealed to in a tone of confidence ? 



DISCOURSE V. 



89 



Suppose, for instance, to illustrate our observation, 
that simple reason were appealed to any subject not 
religious ; and suppose to make the case parallel, that 
the reason of the man on that subject were very much 
perverted, that he was very much prejudiced and 
misled. Yet would not the argument be directed to 
his reason, as a principle actually existing in him, and 
as a principle to be confided in and to be recovered 
from its error? Would not every tone of the argu- 
ment and of the expostulation show confidence in the 
principle addressed? 

Oh ! what power might religion have had, if it had 
breathed this tone of confidence ; if it had gone down 
into the deep and silent places of the heart as the 
voice of friendship ; if it had known what dear and 
precious treasures of love and hope and joy are there, 
ready to be made celestial by its touch: if it had 
spoken to man as the most affectionate parent would 
speak to his most beloved, though sadly erring child; 
if it had said in the emphatic language of the text, 
"unto you, O men, I call, and my voice is to the sons 
of men ;" lo ! I have set my love upon you — upon you, 
men of the strong and affectionate nature, of the aspir- 
ing and heaven-needing soul — not upon inferior crea- 
tures, not upon the beasts of the field, but upon you 
have I set my love ; give entrance to me, not with fear 
and mistrust, but with good hope and with gladness ; 
give entrance to me, and I will make my abode with 
you, and I will build up all that is within you, in glorv, 
and beauty, and ineffable brightness. " Alas! for our 
erring and sinful, but also misguided and ill-used 
nature : bad enough, indeed, we have made it or suf- 
fered it to be made : but if a better lot had befallen it, 

8* 



90 



DISCOURSE V. 



if kindlier influences had breathed upon it, if the 
parent's and the preacher's voice, inspired with every 
tone of hallowed feeling, had won it to piety, if the 
train of social life, with every attractive charm of 
goodness, had led it in the consecrated way, we had 
ere this known, what now alas ! we so poorly know — 
we had known what it is to be children of God, and 
heirs of heaven. 

My friends, let religion speak to us, in its own true 
character, with all its mighty power, and winning can- 
dour and tenderness. It is the principle of infinite 
wisdom that speaks. From that unknown period be- 
fore the world was created — so saith the holy record 
— from the depth of eternity, from the centre of infi- 
nity, from the heart of the universe, from " the bosom 
of God" — its voice has come forth, and spoken to us — 
to us, men, in our lowly habitations. What a minis- 
tration is it ! It is the infinite communing w T ith the 
finite ; it is might communing with frailty ; it is mercy 
stretching out its arms, to the guilty. It is good- 
ness, taking part with all that is good in us, against 
all that is evil. So full, so overflowing, so all-pervad- 
ing, is it, that all things give it utterance. It speaks 
to us in every thing lowly, and in every thing lofty. It 
speaks to us every whispered accent of human affec- 
tion ; and in every revelation that is sounded out from 
the spreading heavens. It speaks to us from this lowly 
seat at which we bow down in prayer — from this 
humble shrine veiled with the shadows of mortal infir- 
mity; and it speaks to us alike, from those altar-fires, 
that blaze in the heights of the firmament. It speaks 
where the seven thunders utter their voices ; and it 
sends forth its voice — of pity more than human, of 



DISCOURSE V. 



91 



agony more than mortal — from the silent summit of 
Calvary. 

Can a principle so sublime and so benignant as reli- 
gion, speak to us but for our good? Can infinity, can 
omnipotence, can boundless love, speak to us, but in 
the spirit of infinite generosity, and candour, and ten- 
derness? No; it may be the infirmity of man to use 
a harsh tone, and to heap upon us bitter and cruel up- 
braidings ; but so speaks not religion. It says— and 
I trace an accent of tenderness and entreaty in every 
word — "unto you, O men, I call; and my voice — my 
voice is to the children of men." 

O man ! whosoever thou art, hear that voice of wis- 
dom. Hear it, thou sacred conscience i and give not 
way to evil ; touch no bribe ; touch not dishonest gain ; 
touch not the sparkling cup of unlawful pleasure. Hear 
it, ye better affections! dear and holy! and turn not 
your purity to pollution, and your sweetness to bitter- 
ness, and your hope, to shame. Hear it, poor, wearied, 
broken, prostrate, human nature! and rise to penitence, 
to sanctity, to glory, to heaven. Rise now; lest soon, 
it be for ever too late. Rise, at this entreaty of wisdom, 
for wisdom can utter no more. Rise, — arise at this 
voice — for the universe is exhausted of all its revela- 
tions — infinity, omnipotence, boundless love have 
lavished their uttermost resource in this one provi- 
sion, this one call, this one Gospel, of mercy ! 



92 



DISCOURSE VI. 

SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 



JOHN VI. 26, 27. Jesus answered them and said, Verily 

VERILY I SAY UNTO YOU, YE SEEK ME, NOT BECAUSE YE SAW 
THE MIRACLES, BUT BECAUSE YE DID EAT OF THE LOAVES 
AND WERE FILLED. LABOUR NOT FOR THE MEAT WHICH 
PERISHETH, BUT FOR THAT MEAT WHICH ENDURETH UNTO 
ETERNAL LIFE. 

The contrast here set forth, is between a worldly 
mind and a spiritual mind: and so very marked and 
striking is it, that the fact upon which it is based, may 
seem to be altogether extraordinary — a solitary in- 
stance of Jewish stupidity, and not applicable to any 
other people, or any after times. Our Saviour avers 
that the multitude who followed him, on a certain oc- 
casion, did so, not because they saw those astonishing 
miracles, that gave witness to his spiritual mission ; 
but simply, because they did eat of the loaves, and 
were filled. Yet, strange as it may seem, the same 
great moral error, I believe, still exists; the same pre- 
ference of sensual to spiritual good, though the specific 
exemplification of the principle can no longer be ex- 
hibited among men. But let us attend to our Saviour's 
exhortation, "Labour not for the meat that perisheth, 
but for that meat which endureth unto eternal life," 



DISCOURSE VI. 



93 



The word, labour, refers to the business of life. It is 
as if our Saviour had said, work, toil, care, provide, 
for the soul. And it is in this sense of the word, as 
well as in the whole tenor of the passage, that I find 
the leading object of my present discourse: which is 
to show that spiritual interests, the interests of the 
mind and heart, the interests of reason and conscience, 
however neglected, however forgotten amidst the pur- 
suit of sensual and worldly objects, are nevertheless 
real and supreme ; that they are not visionary because 
spiritual; but that they are most substantial and 
weighty interests, and most truly deserving of that 
earnest attention, that laborious exertion, which is 
usually given to worldly interests. 

So does not the world regard them, any more than 
did the Jews of old. It is w r ritten that the " children of 
this world are wiser in their generation" — i. e. after their 
manner wiser, than the children of light. But the 
children of this world not content with this concession, 
are apt to think that they are every way, wiser. And 
the special ground of this assumption, though they 
may not be aware of it, is, I believe, the notion which 
they entertain that they are dealing with real and sub- 
stantial interests. Religious men, they conceive, are 
occupied with matters which are vague and visionary, 
and which scarcely have any real existence. A great 
property is something fixed and tangible, sure and 
substantial. But a certain view of religion, a certain 
state of mind, is a thing of shadow — an abstraction 
vanishing into nothing. The worldly-wise man admits 
that it may be well enough for some people ; at any 
rate, he will not quarrel with it; he does not think it 
worth his troubling himself about it ; his aim, his plan, 



94 



DISCOURSE VI. 



his course, is a different one, and — the implication is — 
a wiser one. 

Yes, the very wisdom implied in religion is fre- 
quently accounted to be wisdom of but an humble order ; 
the wisdom of dulness or of superstitious fancy or 
fear; or at most, a very scholastic, abstract, useless 
wisdom. And the very homage which is usually paid 
to religion, the hackneyed acknowledgment that it is 
very well, very proper, a very good thing; or the more 
solemn, if not more dull confession of "the great im- 
portance of religion and more especially the demure 
and mechanical manner in which these things are said, 
proclaim as plainly as any thing can, that it has not 
yet become a living interest in the hearts of men. It 
has never, in fact, taken its proper place among human 
concerns. I am afraid it must be said that w T ith most 
men, the epithet most naturally attaching itself to reli- 
gion, to religious services, to prayers, to books of ser- 
mons, is the epithet, dull. And it is well know r n, as a 
fact, very illustrative of this state of mind, that for a 
long time, parents in this country, were wont to single 
out and destine for the ministry of religion, the dull- 
est of their sons. 

I know of nothing more important therefore, than to 
show that religion takes its place among objects that 
are of actual concern to men and to all men ; that its 
interests are not only of the most momentous, but of 
the most practical character; that the wisdom that 
winneth souls, the religion that takes care for them, 
is the most useful, the most reasonable of all wisdom 
and discipline. It is of the care of the soul, then, that 
I would speak; of its wisdom, of its reasonableness, of its 
actual interest to the common sense and welfare of men. 



DISCOURSE VI. 



95 



The ministry of the Gospel is often denominated 
the care of souls; and I consider this language, rightly 
explained, as conveying a very comprehensive and in- 
teresting description of the office. It is the care of 
souls. This is its whole design, and ought to be its 
whole direction, impulse, strength, and consolation. 
And this, too, if it were justly felt, would impart an in- 
terest, an expansion, a steady energy, a constant 
growth, and a final and full enlargement to the mind of 
the Christian teacher, not surpassed certainly, in any 
other profession or pursuit in life. Whether the sacred 
office has had this effect to as great an extent as other 
professions, is, to the Clergy at least a very serious 
question. I am obliged to doubt whether it has. Cer- 
tainly, to say, that its spirit, has been characterized by 
as much natural warmth, and hearty earnestness as that 
of other pursuits; that its eloquence has been as free 
and powerful as that of the Senate and the Bar; that 
its literature has been as rich as that of poetry or even 
of fiction, — this is more than I dare aver. 

But not to dwell on this question — it is to my pre- 
sent purpose to observe that the very point, from which 
this want of a vivid perception of religious objects hag 
arisen, is the very point, from which help must come. 
Men have not perceived the interests of the mind and 
heart, to be the realities that they are. Here is the 
evil; and here we must find the remedy. Let the 
moral states, experiences, feelings of the soul, become 
but as interesting, as the issue of a lawsuit, the succesg 
of business, or the result of any worldly enterprize, 
and there would be no difficulty ; there would be no 
complaint of dulness, either from our own bosoms or 
from the lips of others. Strip off from the inward soul 



96 



DISCOURSE YI. 



those many folds and coverings— the forms and fashions 
of life, the robes of ambition, the silken garments of 
luxury, the fair array of competence and comfort, and 
the fair semblances of comfort and happiness— strip 
the mind naked and bare to the view; and unfold 
those workings within, where feelings and principles 
make men happy or miserable ; and we should no more 
have such a thing as religious indifference in the world ! 
Sin there might be ; outbreaking passion, outrageous 
vice ; but apathy there could not be. It would not re- 
quire a sentiment of rectitude even, it would hardly 
need, that a man should have any religion at all, to 
feel an interest in things so vital to his welfare. Why 
do men care as they do for worldly things ? Is it 
not because they expect happiness, or think to ward 
off misery with them? Only let them be convinced 
then, that happiness and misery depend much more 
upon the principles and affections of their own minds, 
and would they not transfer the greater portion of their 
interest, to those principles and affections? Would it 
not result from a kind of mental necessity, like that 
which obliges the artisan to look to the mainspring of 
his machinery? Add, then, to this distinct perception 
of the real sources of happiness, an ardent benevolence, 
an earnest, desire for men's welfare; and from this 
union would spring that spiritual zeal, that ardour in the 
concerns of religion and benevolence, of which so much 
is said, so little is felt; and of which the deficiency is 
so much lamented. I am willing to make allowance 
for constitutional differences of temperament, and in- 
deed for many difficulties: but still I maintain that 
there is enough in the power of religious truths and 
affections to overcome ail obstacles. I do maintain, 



DISCOURSE VI. 



97 



that if the objects of religion were perceived to be what 
they are, and were felt as they ought to be, and as every 
man is capable of feeling them, we should no more 
have such things among us, as dull sermons or dull 
books of piety, or dull conferences on religion, than 
dull conversations on the exchange, or dull pleadings 
&t the bar, or even than dull communications of slan 
der by the fireside. 

I have thus far been engaged with stating the ob- 
vious utility and certain efficacy of the right convic- 
tion on this subject. But I have done it as prelimi- 
nary to a closer argument for the right conviction. 
Let us, then, enter more fully upon consideration of 
the great spiritual interest. Let us, my brethren, 
enter somewhat at large, into the consideration of 
religion as an interest ; and of the place which it oc- 
cupies among human interests. Among the cares of 
life, let us consider the care of the soul. For it is 
certain that the interior, the spiritual being has as yet 
obtained no just recognition, in the maxims of this 
world. 

The mind indeed — if we w^ould but understand it — 
is the great central power, in the movements of this 
world's affairs. All the scenes of this life, from the 
busiest to the most quiet, from the gravest to the gay- 
est, are the varied developments of that same mind. 
The world is spread out as a theatre for one great 
action — the action of a mind ; and it is so to be re- 
garded, whether as a sphere of trial, or of suffering, 
of enjoyment or of discipline, of private interests or 
of public history. Life, with all its cares and pursuits, 
with all its aspects of the superficial, the frivolous, and 
the gross, is but the experience of a mind. Life, I 

* 9 



98 



DISCOURSE VX. 



say, dull, plodding, weary life, as many call it, is aftei 
all, a spiritual scene ; and this is the description of it, 
that is of the deepest import to us. 

I know and repeat, that the appearances of things, 
to many at least, are widely different from this repre- 
sentation. I am not ignorant of the prevailing and 
worldly views of this subject. There are some, I 
know, who look upon this life as a scene not of spirit- 
ual interests, but of worldly pleasures. The gratifica- 
tions of sense, the opportunities of indulgence, the 
array in which fashion clothes its votaries, the splen- 
dour of entertainments, the fascinations of amuse- 
ment, absorb them ; or absorb, at least, all the admi- 
ration they feel for the scene of this life. Upon 
others, again, I know that the cloud of affliction de- 
scends ; and it seems to them to come down visibly. 
Evil and trouble are to them, mainly things of condi- 
tion and circumstance. They are thinking chiefly of 
this thing as unfortunate, and of that, as sad ; and they 
forget that intrinsic character of the mind which lends 
the darkest hue, and which might give an aspect of 
more than earthly brightness, to all their sufferings. 
And then again, to the eyes of others, toil presents 
itself ; with rigid sinews and strong arm, indeed, but 
weary too — weary, worn down with fatigue, and per- 
haps disconsolate in spirit. And to its earthly-minded 
victims — for victims they are with that mind— it 
seems, I know, as if this world were made but to 
work in ; and as if death, instead of being the grand 
entrance to immortality, were sufficiently commended 
to them, as a rest and a release. And last of all, gain, 
the master pursuit of all, since it ministers to all other 
pursuits, urges its objects upon our attention. There 



DISCOURSE VI. 



99 



are those, I know, to whom this world — world of 
spiritual probation and immortal hope as it is,— -is but 
one great market-place ; a place for buying and 
selling and getting profit ; a place in which to hoard 
treasures, to build houses, to enjoy competence, or to 
lavish wealth. 

And these things, I know, are called interests. The 
matters of religion are instructions ; ay, and excellent 
instructions — for men can garnish with epithets of 
eulogium, the objects on which they are to bestow 
nothing but praise. And such alas ! are, too often, 
the matters of religion ; they are excellent instruc- 
tions, glorious doctrines, solemn ordinances, impor- 
tant duties ; but to the mass of mankind, they are 
not yet interests. That brief word, with no epithet, 
with no pomp of language about it, expresses more, 
far more, than most men ever really attribute to reli- 
gion, and the concerns of the soul. Nay, and the in- 
terest that is felt in religion — I have spoken of dul- 
ness — but the interest that is felt in religion, is often 
of a very doubtful, superficial, unreal character. Dis- 
courses upon religion, excite a kind of interest, and 
sometimes it might seem, as if that interest were 
strong. And strong of its kind, it may be. But of 
what kind is it ? How deep, how efficient is it ? How 
many are there, that would forego the chance of a 
good mercantile speculation, for the moral effect of 
the most admirable sermon that ever was preached? 
Oh ! no : then it is a different thing. Religion is a 
good thing by the bye ; it is a pleasant thing for en- 
tertainment ; it is a glorious thing to muse and medi- 
tate upon ; but bring it into competition or compari- 
son with real interests, and then to many, it at once 



100 



DISCOURSE VI. 



becomes something subtile, spiritual, invisible, imper- 
ceptible : — it weighs nothing, it counts nothing, it will 
sell for nothing, and in thousands of scenes, in thou- 
sands of dwellings in this world, it is held to be good 
for nothing! This statement. God knoweth. is made 
with no lightness of spirit, though it had almost car- 
ried me, from the vividness of the contrast which it 
presents, to lightness of speech. How sad and 
lamentable is it, that beings whose soul is their chief 
distinction, should imagine that the things which most 
concern them, are things of appearance ! I said, the 
vividness of the contrast : yet in truth it has been but 
half exhibited. It seems like extravagance to say it, 
but I believe, it is sober truth, that there are many 
whom the very belief, the acknowledged record of 
their immortality, has never interested half so deeply 
as the frailest leaf on which a bond or a note is writ- 
ten — many whom no words of the Gospel ever arou- 
sed and delighted, and kindled to such a glow of 
pleasure, as a card of compliment, or a sentence of 
human eulogium ! Indeed, when we draw a line of 
division between the worldly and spiritual, between 
the beings of the world and the beings of the soul, 
between creatures of the outside and creatures of the 
intellect and of immortality, how few will really be 
found among the elect, the chosen, and faithful ! And 
how many who could scarcely suspect it, perhaps, 
would be found on the side of the world — would be 
found among those who in their pursuits and judg- 
ments, are more affected by appearances than Ir- 
realities, who are more powerfully acted upon by out- 
ward possessions, than by inward qualities, who, 
even in their loftiest sentiments, their admiration of 



DISCOURSE VI. 



101 



great and good men, have their enthusiasm full as 
much awakened by the estimation in which those men 
are held, as by their real merits. 

And when we consider all this, when we look upon 
the strife of human passions too, the zeal, the eager- 
ness, the rivalship, the noise, and bustle, with which 
outward things are sought ; the fear, the hope, the 
joy, the sorrow, the discontent, the pride of this world, 
all, to so great an extent fastening themselves upon 
what is visible and tangible, it is not strange that 
many should come almost insensibly to feel as if they 
dwelt in a world of appearances ; and as if nothing 
were real and valuable but what is seen and temporal. 
It is not altogether strange, that the senses have 
spread a broad veil of delusion over the earth, and 
that the concerns of every man's mind and heart, 
have been covered up and kept out of sight, by a 
mass of forms and fashions, and of things called 
interests. 

And yet, notwithstanding all these aspects of things, 
I maintain, and I will show, that the real and main 
interest which concerns every man, lies in the state 
of his own mind ; that habits are of far more conse- 
quence to him than possessions and treasures ; that 
affections, simple and invisible things though they be, 
are worth more to him, than rich dwellings, and broad 
lands, and coveted honours. I maintain, that no man 
is so worldly, or covetous, or voluptuous — that no 
man is so busy, or ambitious, or frivolous, but this is 
true of him. Let him be religious, or not religious, 
let him be the merest slave of circumstances, the 
merest creature of vanity and compliment, that ever 

existed ; and still it is true, and none the less true, 

9# 



102 



DISCOURSE VI. 



that his welfare lies within. There are no scenes of 
engrossing business, tumultuous pleasure, hollow- 
hearted fashion, or utter folly, but the deepest princi- 
ples of religion are concerned with them. Indeed, I 
look upon all these varied pursuits as the strugglings 
of the deeper mind, — as the varied developments of 
the one great desire of happiness. And he who for- 
gets that deeper mind, and sees nothing, and thinks of 
nothing, but the visible scene, I hold to be as unwise 
as the man, who entering upon the charge of one of 
our manufactories, should gaze upon the noisy and 
bustling apparatus above, should occupy himself with 
its varied movements, its swift and bright machinery, 
and its beautiful fabrics, and forget the mighty wheel, 
that moves all from beneath. 

But let us pursue the argument. The mind, it will 
be recollected, is that which is happy or unhappy — 
not goods and fortunes ; not even the senses ; they 
are but the inlets of pleasure to the mind. But this, 
as it is a mere truism, though a decisive one in the 
case, is not the proposition which I am to maintain. 
Neither am I to argue on the other hand, that tho 
mind is independent of circumstances ; that its situa- 
tion, in regard to wealth or poverty, distinction or 
neglect, society or solitude, is a thing of no conse- 
quence. As well say, that its relation to health 
or sickness is a thing of no consequence. But 
this I say and maintain, that what every man has 
chiefly at stake, lies in the mind ; that his excellence 
depends entirely upon that ; that his happiness ordi- 
narily depends more upon the mind itself, upon its 
own state and character, than upon any outward con- 
dition \ that those evils, with which the human race 



DISCOURSE VI. 



103 



is afflicted are mainly evils of the mind ; and that the 
care of the soul, which religion enjoins, is the grand 
and only remedy for human wants and woes. 

The considerations w r hich bear upon this estimate 
of the real and practical w r elfare of men, may be 
drawn from every sphere of human life and action ; 
from every contemplation of mankind, whether in 
their condition, relations, or attributes ; from society, 
from God's providence, from human nature itself. 
Let us, then, in the first place consider society, in 
several respects ; in a general view of the evils that 
disturb or afflict it ; in its intercourse ; in its domes- 
tic scenes ; in its religious institutions ; and in its secu- 
lar business and worldly condition. These topics 
will occupy the time that remains for our present 
meditation. 

It is the more desirable to give some latitude to this 
part of our illustration, because it is in social interests 
and competitions especially, that men are apt to be 
worldly; i. e. to be governed by considerations extrin- 
sic and foreign to the soul. The social man, indeed, 
is often worldly, while the same man in retirement, is 
after his manner devout. 

What then are the evils in society at large? I answer, 
they are mainly, evils of the mind. Let us descend to 
particulars. Some for instance, are depressed and 
irritated by neglect; and others are elated and injured 
by flattery. These are large classes of society around 
us ; and the first, I think, by far the largest class. Both 
are unfortunate; both are wrong, probably; and not 
only so, but society is wrong for treating them in these 
ways, — and the wrong, the evil in every instance, lies 
in the mind, Some again, want excitement, want ol> 



104 



DISCOURSE VI. 



ject; and duty and religion would fill their hearts with 
constant peace, and withaplentitude of happy thoughts. 
Others want restraint, want the power to deny them- 
selves, and want to know that such self-denial is bless- 
ed, and true piety would teach them this lofty know- 
ledge ; true piety, would gently and strongly control 
all their passions. In short, ennui, and excess, intem- 
perance, slander, variance, rivalship, pride, and envy, 
— these are the miseries of society, and they are all 
miseries that exist in the mind. Where would our ac- 
count end, if we were to enumerate all the things that 
awaken our fears, in the progress and movements of 
the social world around us ? Good men differ and 
reject each other's light and countenance; and bad 
men, alas! agree but too well; wise men dispute, and 
fools laugh ; the selfish grasp ; the ambitious strive ; the 
sensual indulge themselves ; and it seems, at times, as 
if the world were going surely, if not swiftly, to de- 
struction! And why? Only, and always, and every 
where, because the mind is not right. Put holy truth 
in every false heart, instil a sacred piety into every 
worldly mind, and a blessed virtue into every fountain 
of corrupt desires; and the anxieties of philanthropy 
might be hushed, and the tears of benevolent prayer 
and faith, might be dried up: and patriotism and piety 
might gaze upon the scene and the prospect with un- 
mingled joy. Surely then, the great interests of so- 
ciety are emphatically the interests of religion and 
virtue. 

And if we estimate the condition of society upon 
the great scale of its national interests, we shall find 
that intellectual and moral character marks every de- 
gree upon that scale. Why is it that the present 



DISCOURSE VI. 



105 



grand era of promise in the world, is so perilous too? 
Why is it that Europe, with her struggling multitude 
of states, and her struggling multitude of people, can- 
not safely work out that great political reform, to 
which the eyes of her thousands and her millions, are 
anxiously and eagerly looking? Why is the bright and 
broad pathway before her, darkened to the vision of 
the philosophic and wise — darkened with doubt and 
apprehension? Only, I repeat, and always, and every 
where, because the mind is not right. Put sound wis- 
dom and sobriety, and mutual good will, into the 
hearts of all rulers and people, and the way would be 
plain, and easy, and certain, and glorious. 

But let us contract again the circle of our observa- 
tion. Gather any circle of society to its evening as- 
sembly. And what is the evil there ? He must think 
but little, who imagines there is none. I confess that 
there are few scenes that more strongly dispose me to 
reflection, than this. I see greal and signal advantages, 
fair and fascinating opportunities for happiness. The 
ordinary, or rather the ordinarily recognised evils of 
life, have no place in the throng of social entertain- 
ment. They are abroad, indeed, in many a hovel, and 
hospital, and by many a w T ayside ; but from those bril- 
liant and gay apartments they are, for the time, ex- 
cluded. The gathering is, of youth, and lightness of 
heart, and prosperous fortune. The manly brow flushed 
with the beauty of its early day, the fair form of out- 
ward loveliness, the refined understanding, the accom- 
plished manner, the glad parent's heart, and confiding 
filial love, and music and feasting are there ; and yet 
beneath many a soft raiment and many a silken fold, 
I know that hearts are beating, which are full of dis» 



106 



DISCOURSE VI. 



quietude and pain. The selfishness of parental anxiety, 
the desire of admiration, the pride of success, the mor- 
tification of failure, the vanity that is flattered, the ill- 
concealed jealousy, the miserable affectation, the dis- 
trustful embarrassment, — that comprehensive difficulty 
which proceeds to some extent indeed from the fault 
of the individual, but much more from the general 
fault of society — these are the evils from which the 
gayest circles of the social world need to be reformed ; 
and these too are evils in the mind. They are evils 
which nothing, but religion and virtue can ever cor- 
rect. The remedy must be applied where the disease 
is, and that is to the soul. 

But now follow society to its homes. There is, in- 
deed, and eminently, the scene of our happiness or of 
our misery. And it is too plain to be insisted on, that 
domestic happiness depends ordinarily and chiefly, 
upon domestic honour and fidelity, upon disinterested- 
ness, generosity, kindness, forbearance; and the vices 
opposite to these, are the evils that embitter the peace 
and joy of domestic life. Men in general are suffi- 
ciently sensible to this part of their welfare. Thou- 
sands all around us, are labouring by day, and medi- 
tating by night, upon the means of building up, in 
comfort and honour, the families, with whose fortunes 
and fate their own is identified. Here, then, if any 
where — -here in these homes of our affection, are in- 
terests. And surely, I speak not to discourage a 
generous self-devotion to them, or a reasonable care 
of their worldly condition. But I say, that this condi- 
tion is not the main thing, though it is commonly made 
so. I say that there is something of more consequence 
to the happiness of a family, than the apartments it 



DISCOURSE VI. 



107 



occupies, or the furniture that adorns them ; something 
of dearer and more vital concernment, than costly 
equipage, or vast estates, or coveted honours. I say, 
that if its members have any thing within them, that is 
worthy to be called a mind, their main interests are 
their thoughts and their virtues. Vague and shadowy 
things they may appear to some; but let a man be 
ever so worldly, and this is true ; and it is a truth 
which he cannot help: and all the struggle of family 
ambition, and all the pride of its vaunted consequence, 
and cherished luxury, will only the more demonstrate 
it to be true. 

Choose, then, what scene of social life you will, and 
it can be shown beyond all reasonable doubt, that the 
main concern, the great interest there is the state of 
the mind. 

What is it that makes dull and weary services at 
church ; — if, alas ! we must admit that they sometimes 
are so. A living piety in the congregation, a fervent 
love of God, and truth, and goodness, would commu- 
nicate life, I had almost said, to the dullest service 
that ever passed in the house of God : and, if destitute 
of that piety, the preaching of an angel would awaken 
in us only a temporary enthusiasm. A right and holy 
feeling would niake the house of God, the place for 
devout meditation, a place more profoundly, more 
keenly interesting, than the thronged mart, or the can- 
vassing hall, or the tribunal that is to pass judgment 
on a portion of our property. Do you say that the 
preacher is sometimes dull, and that is all the difficulty ? 
No, it is not all the difficulty ; for the dullest haranguer 
that ever addressed an infuriated mob, when speak- 
ing their sentiments, is received with shouts of ap- 



108 



DISCOURSE VI. 



plause. Suppose that a company were assembled to 
consider and discuss some grand method to be pro- 
posed, for acquiring fortunes for themselves — some 
south-sea scheme, or project for acquiring the mines 
of Potosi ; and suppose that some one should rise to 
speak to that company, who could not speak elo- 
quently, nor in an interesting manner : grant all that— 
but suppose this dull speaker could say something, 
could state some fact or consideration, to help on the 
great inquiry. Would the company say that they 
could not listen to him ? Would the people say that 
they would not come to hear him again ? No, the 
speaker might be as awkward and as prosaic, as he 
pleased ; he might be some humble observer, some 
young engineer — but he would have attentive and 
crowded auditories. A feeling in the hearers would 
supply all other deficiencies. 

Shall this be so in worldly affairs, and shall there 
be nothing like it in religious affairs ? Grant that the 
speaker on religion is not the most interesting ; grant 
that he is dull ; grant that his emotions are constitu- 
tionally less earnest than yours are — yet I say — what 
business have you to come to church to be passive in 
the service, to be acted on, and not yourselves to act? 
And yet more, what warrant have you, to let your 
affections to your God depend on the infirmity of any 
mortal being ? Is that awful presence that filleth the 
sanctuary, though no cloud of incense be there — is the 
vital and never-dying interest which you have in your 
own mind — is the wide scene of living mercies that 
surrounds you, and which you have come to meditate 
upon — is it all indifferent to you, because one poor, 
erring mortal is cold and dead to it ? I do not ask 



DISCOURSE VI. 



109 



you to say that he is not dull, if he is dull ; I do not 
ask you to say that he is interesting ; but I ask you to 
be interested in spite of him. His very dulness, if he 
is dull, ought to move you. If you cannot weep with 
him, you ought to weep for him. 

Besides, the weakest or the dullest man tells you 
truths of transcendent glory and power. He tells you 
that " God is love f and how might that truth, though 
he uttered not another word, or none but dull words — 
how might that truth spread itself out into the most 
glorious and blessed contemplations ! Indeed, the 
simple truths are after all the great truths. Neither 
are they always best understood. The very readi- 
ness of assent is sometimes an obstacle to the fulness 
of the impression. Very simple matters, I am aware, 
are those to which I am venturing to call your atten- 
tion, in this hour of our solemnities ; and yet do I be- 
lieve, that if they were clearly perceived and felt 
among men at large, they would begin, from this mo- 
ment, the regeneration of the world ! 

But pass now from the silent and holy sanctuary, to 
the bustling scene of this world's business and pursuit. 
" Here," the worldly man will say, " we have reality. 
Here, indeed, are interests. Here is something worth 
being concerned about." And yet even here do the 
interests of religion and virtue pursue him, and press 
themselves upon his attention. 

Look, for instance, at the condition of life, the pos- 
session, or the want, of those blessings for which busi- 
ness is prosecuted. What is it that distresses the 
poor man, and makes poverty in the ordinary condi- 
tion of it, the burden that it is ? It is not, in this 
country, — it is not usually, hunger, nor cold, nor naked* 

10 



110 



DISCOURSE VI. 



ness. It is some artificial want created by the wrong 
state of society. It is something nearer yet to us, and 
yet more unnecessary. It is mortification, discontent, 
peevish complaining, or envy of a better condition ; 
and all these are evils of the mind. Again, what is it 
that troubles the rich man, or the man who is suc- 
cessfully striving to be rich ? It is not poverty, cer- 
tainly, nor is it exactly possession. It is occasional 
disappointment, it is continual anxiety, it is the extra- 
vagant desire of property, or worse than all, the 
vicious abuse of it ; and all these too are evils of the 
mind. 

But let our worldly man, who will see nothing but 
the outside of things, who will value nothing but pos- 
sessions, take another view of his interest. What is 
it that cheats, circumvents, overreaches him ? It is 
dishonesty. What disturbs, vexes, angers him ? It is 
some wrong from another, or something wrong in 
himself. What steals his purse, or robs his person ? 
It is not some unfortunate mischance that has come 
across his path. It is a being in whom nothing worse 
resides, than fraud and violence. What robs him of 
that, which is dearer than property, his fair name 
among his fellows ? It is the poisonous breath of foul 
and accursed slander. And what is it, in fine, that 
threatens the security, order, peace, and well-being 
of society at large ; that threatens, if unrestrained, to 
deprive our estates, our comforts, our domestic en- 
joyments, our personal respectability, and our whole 
social condition, of more than half their value ? It is 
the spirit of injustice and wild misrule in the human 
breast ; it is political intrigue, or popular violence ; it 
is the progress of corruption, intemperance, lascivi- 



DISCOURSE VI. 



Ill 



ousness, — the progress of vice and sin, in all their 
forms. I know that these are very simple truths ; 
but if they are very simple, and very certain, how is 
it that men are so worldly ? Put obligation out of the 
question ; how is it, that they are not more sagacious 
and wary with regard to their interests ? How is it 
that the means of religion and virtue are so indifferent 
to many, in comparison with the means of acquiring 
property or office ? How is it that many unite and 
contribute so coldly and reluctantly for the support of 
government, learning, and Christian institutions, who so 
eagerly combine for the prosecution of moneyed specu- 
lations, and of party and worldly enterprises ? How is 
it, I repeat? Men desire happiness ; and a very clear 
argument may be set forth to show them where their 
happiness lies. And yet here is presented to you the 
broad fact — and with this fact I will close the present 
meditation- — that while men's welfare depends mainly 
on their own minds, they are actually and almost uni- 
versally seeking it in things without them : that among 
the objects of actual desire and pursuit, affections and 
virtues, in the world's esteem, bear no comparison 
with possessions and honours ; nay, that men are 
every where and every day, sacrificing— ay, sacrifi- 
cing affections and virtues — sacrificing the dearest 
treasures of the soul, for what they call goods, and 
pleasures, and distinctions. 



112 



DISCOURSE VII. 

SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREME. 



JOHN VI. 27. Labour not for the meat that perisheth, 

BUT FOR THAT MEAT WHICH ENDURETH UNTO ETERNAL LIFE. 

The interests of the mind and heart, — spiritual in- 
terests, in other words — the interests involved in reli- 
gion, are real and supreme. Neglected, disregarded, 
ridiculed, ruined as they may be— ruined as they may 
be in mere folly, in mere scorn — they are still real 
and supreme. Notwithstanding all appearances, de- 
lusions, fashions, and opinions to the contrary, this is 
true, and will be true for ever. All essential interests 
centre ultimately in the soul ; all that do not centre 
there, are circumstantial, transitory, evanescent ; they 
belong to the things that perish. 

This is what I have endeavoured to show this 
morning, and for this purpose I have appealed in the 
first place, to society. 

My second appeal is to Providence. Society indeed, 
is a part of the system of Providence ; but let me in- 
vite you to consider under this head, that the interest 
of the soul urged in the gospel, is, in every respect, 
the great object of heaven's care and providence. 

The world, which is appointed for our temporary 
dwelling place, was made for this end. The whole 



DISCOURSE VII. 



113 



creation around us, is, to the soul, a subject and a 
ministering creation. The mighty globe itself, with all 
its glorious apparatus and furniture, is but a theatre for 
the care of the soul— the theatre of its redemption. 
This vast universe is but a means. But look at the 
earth alone. Why was it made such as it is? Its fruit- 
ful soils, its rich valleys, its mountain-tops, and its 
rolling oceans; its humbler scenes, clothed with beauty 
and light, good even in the sight of their Maker, fair 
— fair to mortal eyes — why were they given ? They 
were not given for mere sustenance and supply; for 
much less would have sufficed for that end. They 
need not have been so fair to have answered that end. 
They could have spared their verdure, and flowers, and 
fragrance, and still have vielded sustenance. The 
groves might never have waved in the breeze, but 
have stood in the rigidity of an iron forest; the hills 
might not have been moulded into forms of beauty, 
the streams might not have sparkled in their course, 
nor the ocean have reflected the blue depths of 
heaven — and yet they might have furnished all need- 
ful sustenance. No, they were not given for this 
alone : but they w T ere given to nourish and kindle 
in the human soul, a glory and a beauty, of which 
all outward grandeur and loveliness are but the 
image — given to show forth the majesty and love of 
God, and to form in man a resemblance to that majesty 
and love. Think then, of a being in such a position 
and with such a ministry, made to be the intelligent 
companion of God's glorious works, the interpreter of 
nature, the Lord of the creation — made to be the ser- 
vant of God alone. And yet this being — Oh ! miserable 
disappointment and failure ! — makes himself the slave 

10* 



114 



DISCOURSE vn. 



of circumstances, the slave of outward goods and ad- 
vantages, the slave of every thing that he ought to 
command. 

I know that he must toil and care for these things. 
But wherefore ? Why must he toil and care ? For a 
reason, I answer, which still urges upon him the very 
point we are considering. It had been as easy for the 
Almighty to have caused nature spontaneously to bring 
forth all that man needs, to have built as a part of the 
frame of the earth, enduring houses for us to dwell in, 
to have filled them with all requisite comforts, and to 
have relieved us, in short, from the necessity of labour 
and business. Why has he not done this? Still, I 
answer, for the same cause, with the same moral de- 
sign, as that with which the world was made. Activity 
is designed for mental improvement; industry for 
moral discipline ; business for the cultivation of manly 
and high and noble virtues. When, therefore, a man 
enters into the active pursuits of life, — though he 
pleads the cares of business as an excuse for his 
neglect, — yet it is then especially, and that by the very 
teaching of Providence, that he should be reminded of 
his spiritual welfare. He could not with safety, to his 
moral being, — this is the theory of his condition — he 
could not with safety, be turned full and free into the 
domain of nature. He goes forth, therefore, bearing 
burdens — burdens of care ; and wearing the shackles 
of necessity. The arm that he stretches out to his toil 
w T ears a chain; for he must work. And on the tablet 
where immortal thoughts are to be written, he writes 
words, — soon to be erased, indeed, but words of 
worldly care and foresight, for he must provide. And 
yet, how strange and passing strange is it! — the occu- 



DISCOURSE VII. 



115 



pations and objects that were given for discipline, and 
the trial of the spirit, and the training of it to virtue, are 
made the ultimate end and the chief good ; yes, these 
which were designed for humble means of good to the 
soul, are made the engrossing pursuits, the absorbing 
pleasures and possessions, in which the soul itself is 
forgotten and lost ! 

Thus spiritual, in its design, is nature. Thus spiritual, 
in its just aspects, is the scene of life; no dull scene 
when rightly regarded; no merely wearisome, uncom- 
pensated toil, or perplexing business ; but a ministra- 
tion to purposes of infinite greatness and sublimity. 

We are speaking of human interests. God also looks 
upon the interest of his creatures. But he seeth not 
as man seeth. Man looketh on the outward appear- 
ance, but God looketh on the heart. He sees that all 
human interests centre there. He sees there, the 
gathering, the embosoming, the garnering up, of all 
that is precious to an immortal creature. Therefore, 
it is, that as the strongest proof of his love to the world, 
he gave his Son to live for our teaching, and guidance, 
and to die for our redemption from sin and death and 
hell. Every bright example, every pure doctrine, every 
encouraging promise, every bitter pang endured, 
points to the soul, for its great design and end. And 
let me say that if I have seemed to any one to speak 
in language over refined or spiritual, I can no other- 
wise understand the teachings of the great Master. 
His words w T ould often be mystery and extravagance 
to me, if I did not feel, that the soul is every thing, and 
that the world is nothing but what it is to the soul. 
With this perception of the true value of things, I re- 
quire no transcendental piety, I require nothing but 



116 



DISCOURSE VII. 



common sense, to understand what he says, when he 
pronounces men to be deaf, and blind, and diseased 
and dead in sins. For to give up the joys of the soul 
for the joys of sense ; to neglect the heart, for the out- 
ward condition; to forego inward good in the eagerness 
for visible good; to forget and to forsake God amidst 
his very works and mercies — this is, indeed, a mourn- 
ful blindness, a sad disorder of the rational nature, and 
when the evil is consummated, it is a moral death ! 
True there may be no tears for it, save in here and 
there one who retires from the crowd, to think of the 
strange delusion, and the grievous misfortune, and the 
degrading unworthiness. There are no tokens of pub- 
lic mourning for the calamity of the soul. Men weep 
when the body dies ; and when it is borne to its last 
rest, they follow it with sad and mournful procession. 
But for the dying soul there is no open lamentation ; 
for the lost soul there are no obsequies. And yet, when 
the great account of life is made up — though the w 7 ords 
we now speak, can but approach to the truth and may 
leave but slight impression— the things we may then 
remember — God forbid, that we should have them to 
remember!- — but the things we may then have to re- 
member — life's misdirected toil, the world's delusions, 
the thoughts unguarded, the conscience every day 
violated, the soul for ever neglected* — these, Oh ! these 
will weigh upon the spirit, like those mountains, which 
men are represented in prophetic vision as vainly call- 
ing upon to cover them, 

III. But I am now verging upon the third and final 
argument which I proposed to use for the care of our 
spiritual interests, and that is to be found in their value. 

I have shown that society in all its pursuits, objects 



DISCOURSE VII. 



117 



and scenes urges this care ; that nature, and provi- 
dence and revelation minister to it; and I now say, 
that the soul is intrinsically and independently worth 
this care. Put all consequences to social man out of 
sight, if it be possible ; draw a veil over all the bright 
and glorious ministry of nature ; let the teachings of 
Providence all be silent ; let the Gospel be a fable ; and 
still the mind of man has a value which nothing else 
has ; it is worth a care which nothing else is worth ; and 
to the single, solitary individual, it ought to posses an 
interest which nothing else possesses. 

Indeed, at every step by which we advance in this 
subject, the contrast between what is, and what ought 
to be, presses upon us. Men very well understand the 
word, value. They know very well what interests are. 
Offices, stocks, monopolies, mercantile privileges, are 
interests. Nay, even the chances of profit, are interests 
so dear, that men contend for them and about them, 
almost as if they were striving for life. And value — 
how carefully and accurately and distinctly is that 
quality stamped upon every object in this world ! Cur« 
rency has value, and bonds have value, and broad 
lands, and freighted ships, and rich mines are all 
marked down in the table of this strict account. Go 
to the exchange, and you shall know 7 what they are 
worth; and you shall know T what men will give for 
them. But the stored treasures of the heart, the un- 
sunned, the unfathomable mines that are to be wrought 
in the soul, the broad and boundless realms of thought, 
the freighted ocean cf man's affections — of his love, 
his gratitude, his hope — who will regard them ? — who 
seek for them, as if they were brighter than gold, 
dearer than treasure ? 



118 



discourse vn. 



The mind, I repeat — how little is it known or con- 
sidered ! That all which man permanently is, — the in- 
ward being, the divine energy, the immortal thought, 
the boundless capacity, the infinite aspiration — how 
few value this, this wonderful mind, for what it is 
worth! How few see it — that brother mind — in 
others; see it in all the forms of splendour and wretch- 
edness alike — see it, though fenced around with all the 
artificial distinctions of society — see it, through the 
rags with which poverty has clothed it, beneath the 
crushing burthens of life, amidst the close pressure of 
worldly troubles, wants and sorrows — see it, and ac- 
knowledge and cheer it in that humble lot, and feel that 
the nobility of earth, that the commencing glory of 
heaven is there ! Nor is this the worst, nor the strongest 
view of the case. Men do not feel the worth of their 
own minds. They are very proud perhaps ; they are 
proud of their possessions; they are proud of their 
minds, it may be, as distinguishing them; but the in- 
trinsic, the inward, the infinite worth of their own minds 
they do not perceive. How many a man is there who 
would feel, if he were introduced into some magnifi- 
cent palace, and were led through a succession of 
splendid apartments, filled with rich and gorgeous fur- 
niture — would feel, I say, as if he, lofty, immortal 
being as he is, were but an ordinary thing amidst the 
tinselled show around him; or would feel as if he were 
a more ordinary being, for the perishing glare of things, 
amidst which he walked ! How many a man, who, as 
he passed along the way-side, saw the chariot of 
wealth rolling by him, would forget the intrinsic and 
eternal dignity of his own mind, in a poor, degrading 
envy of that vain pageant — would feel himself to be an 



DISCOURSE VII* 



119 



humbler creature, because, not in mind, but in mensu- 
ration, he was not quite so high! And so long as this 
is the case, do you believe that men understand their 
own minds, that they know what they possess within 
them? How many, in fact, feel as if that inward being, 
that mind, were respectable, chiefly, because their 
bodies lean on silken couches, and are fed with costly 
luxuries ! How many respect themselves, and look for 
respect from others, in proportion, as they grow more 
rich, and live more splendidly, not more wisely, — and 
fare more sumptuously every day ! Surely it is not 
strange, while all this is true, that men should be more 
attracted by objects of sense and appetite, than by 
miracles of wisdom and love. And it is not strange 
that the spiritual riches which man is exhorted to seek, 
are represented in scripture as "hid treasures;" for 
they are indeed hidden in the depths of the soul — hid- 
den, covered up, with w T orldly gains, and pomps, and 
vanities. It is not strange that the kingdom of heaven 3 
that kingdom which is within, is represented as a 
treasure buried in a field : the flowers bloom and the 
long grass waves there, and men pass by and say it is 
beautiful ; but this very beauty, this very luxuriance 
conceals the treasure. And so it is in this life, that 
luxury and show, fashion and outward beauty, w T orldly 
pursuits and possessions, attract the eyes of men and 
they know not the treasure that is hidden in every 
human soul. 

Yes, the treasure — and the treasure that is in every 
soul. The difference that exists among men, is not so 
much in their nature, not so much in their intrinsic 
power, as in the power of communication. To some 
it is given to unbosom and embody their thoughts ; but 



120 



discourse vn. 



all men, more or less, feel those thoughts. The very 
glory of genius, the very rapture of piety, when rightly 
revealed, are diffused and spread abroad, and shared 
among unnumbered minds. When eloquence, and 
poetry speak; — when the glorious arts, statuary and 
painting and music ; when patriotism, charity, virtue, 
speak to us, with all their thrilling power, do not the 
hearts of thousands glow with a kindred joy and ecstasy ? 
Who's here so humble, who so poor in thought, or in 
affection, as not to feel this? Who's here so low, so 
degraded, I had almost said, as not sometimes to be 
touched with the beauty of goodness? Who's here 
with a heart made of such base materials, as not some- 
times to respond through every chord of it, to the call 
of honour, patriotism, generosity, virtue? What a glo- 
rious capacity is this ! — a power to commune with God 
and angels ! — a reflection of the brightness of heaven — 
a mirror that collects and concentrates within itself all 
the moral splendours of the universe — a light kindled 
from heaven, that is to shine brighter and brighter for 
ever ! For what then, my friends, shall we care as we 
ought to care for this ? What can man bear about 
with him, — what office, what array, what apparel — 
that shall beget such reverence as the soul he bears 
%vith him ? What circumstances of outward splendour 
can lend such imposing dignity to any being, as the 
throne of inward light and power, where the spirit 
reigns for ever? What work of man shall be brought 
into comparison with this work of God? I will speak 
of it in its simplest character — I say, a thought, a bare 
thought, — and yet I say, what is it — and what is its 
power and mystery? Breathed from the inspiration 
of the Almighty; partaking of infinite attributes; com- 



i 



DISCOURSE VII. 



121 



prehending, analyzing, and with its own beauty cloth- 
ing all things ; and bringing all things and all themes, 
— earth, heaven, eternity, — within the possession of its 
momentary being; what is there that man can form, — 
what sceptre or throne, — what structure of ages — 
what empire of wide-spread dominion — can compare 
with the w r onders and the grandeurs of a single thought? 
It is that alone of all things that are made, — it is that 
alone, that comprehends the Maker of all. That alone 
is the key, which unlocks all the treasures of the uni- 
verse. That alone is the power that reigns over space, 
time, eternity. That, under God, is the sovereign 
dispenser to man, of all the blessings and glories, that 
lie within the compass of possession, or within the 
range of possibility. Virtue, piety, heaven, immor- 
tality, exist not, and never will exist for us, but as they 
exist, and will exist in the perception, feeling, thought 
— of the glorious mind. 

Indeed, it is the soul alone that gives any value to 
the things of this world ; and it is only by raising the 
soul to its just elevation above all other things, that we 
can look rightly upon the purposes of this life. This 
to my apprehension, is not only a most important, but 
a most practical view of the subject. 

I have heard men say that they could not look upon 
this life as a blessing. I have heard it more than in- 
sinuated, I have known it to be actually implied in 
solemn prayers to God, that it is a happiness to die in 
infancy. And nothing, you are aware, is more com- 
mon than to hear it said, that youth, unreflecting youth, 
is the happy season of life. And when by reason of 
sickness or the infirmities of age, men outlive their ac- 
tivity and their sensitive happiness, nothing is more 

11 



122 



DISCOURSE VII, 



common than to look upon the continuance of life in 
these circumstances, as a misfortune. 

Now I do not wonder at these views so long as men 
are as worldly as they usually are. I wonder that they 
do not prevail more. "Oh ! patient and peaceable men 
that ye are !" I have been ready to say to the mere men 
of this world — "peaceable men and patient! what is it 
that bears you up? What is it but a blind and instinc- 
tive love of life, that can make you content to live?" 
But let the soul have its proper ascendency in our 
judgments, and all the mighty burthen is relieved. 
Life is then the education of the soul, the discipline of 
conscience, virtue, piety. All things then, are subor- 
dinate to this sublime purpose. Life is, then, one scene 
of growing knowledge, improvement, devotion, joy and 
triumph. In this view and in this view only, it is an 
unspeakable blessing; and those who have not yet 
taken this view, who have not yet given the soul its 
just pre-eminence, who have not yet become spiritu- 
ally-minded, are not yet prepared to live. It is not 
enough to say, as is commonly said, that they are not 
prepared to die ; they are not prepared to live. 

I would not address this matter my friends, merely 
to your religious sensibility ; I would address it to your 
common sense. It is a most serious and practical mat- 
ter. There are many things in this world, as I have 
more than once said, w r hich are called interests. But 
he who has not regarded his soul as he ought, who has 
gained no deep sense of things that are spiritual, has 
neglected the main interest, the chief use of this life, 
the grand preparation for living calmly, wisely, and 
happily. It is a thousand times more serious for him, 
than if he had been negligent about property, about 
honour, or about worldly connections and friendships. 



DISCOURSE VII. 



123 



With this reasonable subjection of the body to the 
soul, with this supreme regard to the soul as the guid- 
ing light of life, every man would feel that this 
life is a blessing; and that the continuance of it is a 
blessing. He would be thankful for its continuance 
with a fervour which no mere love of life could inspire ; 
for life to him, and every day of it, would be a glorious 
progress, in things infinitely more precious than life. 
He would not think the days of unreflecting youth, the 
happiest days. He would not think that the continu- 
ance of his being upon earth, even beyond active use- 
fulness to others, was a misfortune, or a mystery. He 
would not be saying, "why is my life lengthened out?" 
He would feel that every new day of life spread before 
him glorious opportunities to be improved, glorious 
objects to be gained. He would not sink down in 
miserable ennui or despondency. He would not faint 
or despair, or be overwhelmed with doubt, amidst dif- 
ficulties and afflictions. He would feel that the course 
of his life, even though it pass on through clouds and 
storms, is glorious as the path of the sun. 

Thus have I endeavoured to show that the care of 
the soul is the most essential of all human interests. 
Let no worldly man think himself wise. He might be 
a wise animal; but he is not a wise man. Nay, I can- 
not admit even that. For being what he is — animal or 
man, call him what you will, — it is as truly essential, 
that he should work out the salvation of his soul; as it 
is, that he should work with his hands for his daily 
bread. How reasonable then is our Saviour's exhor- 
tation, when he says, " Labour, therefore, not for the 
meat which perisheth, but for that which endureth 
unto everlasting life." 



124 



DISCOURSE VIII. 

ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY,* 



EZEKIEL 36, 26. And I will give you a heart of 

FLESH. 

The subject to which I wish to invite your thoughts 
in this discourse, is that religious sensibility, that 
spiritual fervour, in other words, that " heart of flesh," 
which is spoken of in the text. 

To a sincere, and at the same time, rational culti- 
vator of his religious affections, it seems at first view, 
a thing almost unaccountable, that Christians, appa- 
rently serious and faithful, should every where be 
found complaining of the want of religious feeling ; 
that the grand, universal, standing complaint of almost 
the entire body of Christians, should be a complaint 
of dulness. To one, who has studied the principles of 
his own nature, or observed its tendencies ; who 
knows that, as visible beauty is made to delight the 
eye, so moral beauty is made to delight the mind ; it 
seems a tremendous moral solecism, that all the affec- 

* The substance of the two following discourses was addressed to 
the graduating class, in the Theological Department of Harvard 
University, in 1834. This circumstance will account for the form 
that is given to some of the topics and illustrations. 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



125 



tions of this nature and mind, should become cold and 
dead, the moment they are directed to the Infinite 
Beauty and Glory. It will not solve the problem to 
say that human nature is depraved. If, indeed, the 
depravity of men were such, that all enthusiasm for 
excellence had died out in the world, the general 
reason assigned might satisfy us. But what is the 
fact? What is the beauty of nature, but a beauty 
clothed with moral associations ? What is the high- 
est beauty of literature, poetry, fiction, and the fine 
arts, but a moral beauty which genius has bodied 
forth for the admiration of the world ? And what are 
those qualities of the human character which are 
treasured up in the memory and heart of nations — the 
objects of universal reverence and exultation, the 
themes of celebration, of eloquence, and of festal 
song, the enshrined idols of human admiration and 
love ? Are they not patriotism, heroism, philan- 
thropy, disinterestedness, magnanimity, martyrdom ? 

And yet the Being, from whom all earthly beauty 
and human excellence are emanations, and of whom 
they are faint resemblances, is the very Being whom 
men tell us that they cannot heartily and constantly 
love : and the subject which is held most especially 
to connect us with that Being, is the very subject in 
which men tell us they cannot be heartily interested. 
No observing pastor of a religious congregation who 
has been favoured with the intimacy of one mind 
awaking to this subject, can fail to know that this is 
the grand complaint. The difficulty about feeling, is 
the first great difficulty ; and it is one which presses 
upon every after- step of the religious course. Few 
arrive at that point where they can say with the apos- 

11* 



126 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



tie " I know in whom I have believed." The common 
language and tone in which even religious confidence 
is expressed, do not go beyond such distrustful and 
desponding words as these — " I hope that I love God ; 
I hope I have an interest in religion f alas ! how dif- 
ferent from the manner in which, friendship, love, 
domestic affection, breathe themselves into the ear, 
and thrill through the heart of the world ! 

It seems especially strange, that this complaint of 
dulness should be heard in places devoted to the ac- 
quisition of religious knowledge, and the cultivation of 
religious affection ; and yet it is, perhaps, no where 
more common or emphatic. And it is confined to no one 
species of religious seminaries ; it is confined, I mean, 
to no one sect. I have heard it in tones as emphatic 
from Catholic and Calvinistic seminaries, as from 
any other. I have heard it as strongly expressed in 
other lands, as in our own. But is it not very extra- 
ordinary ? We hear it not from the studios of artists, 
We hear it not from the schools of law and medicine. 
There is no complaint of dulness, there is no want of 
enthusiasm, about their appropriate objects in any of 
these. He, whose mind is occupied with the most 
abstruse questions of science or of the law : he, who 
gazes upon a painting, or upon a statue — ay, and he 
who gazes upon a skeleton, does not complain that he 
cannot be interested in them. I have heard such an 
one say, "beautiful! beautiful !" in a case where admi- 
ration seemed almost absurd ; where it provoked a 
smile from the observer. And yet in schools — in 
schools of ardent youth — where the subject of atten- 
tion is the supreme and infinite Beauty, if we may 
take confession for evidence — I do not say it is yours, 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



127 



my brethren, but I have often heard it from persons 
situated as you are — yes, among such persons, if we 
may take confession for evidence — all is cold and 
dead. 

But I must here, and before I go any further, put 
forward one qualification. I do not think that con 
fession is to be taken for evidence, altogether, and 
without any qualification. One reason, doubtless, 
why Christians complain so much of the want of feel- 
ing, is to be found in the very sense which they en- 
tertain of the infinite value and greatness of the ob- 
jects of their faith. And it is unquestionably true 
that there is often a great deal of feeling in cases 
where there are very sad lamentations over the want 
of it. Lamentation certainly does not prove total 
insensibility. 

Still, however, there is an acknowledged deficiency; 
not appertaining to any one class or condition, but 
to the entire body of Christians. And it is especially 
a deficiency of natural, hearty, genuine, deep sensibi- 
lity. And, once more, it is deficiency, sad, strange, 
and inexcusable, on a subject more than all others 
claiming our sensibility. And yet again, it is a defi- 
ciency which, when existing on the part of the clergy, 
is most deplorable in its consequences. It is there- 
fore every body's interest, and that for every reason, 
to consider what are the causes, and what are the 
remedies of this peculiar, prevailing, religious insensi- 
bility. 

I have some question, indeed, whether this demand 
for sensibility — the popular rage that is to say for 
feeling, feeling alone — is not, in some views, mis- 
taken, excessive, and wrong. But let me admit, for I 



128 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



cannot resist, the strength, the supremacy of the claim, 
which religion has on our whole heart. The first and 
lawful demand of the mind awakened to religion, is to 
feel it. The last attainment, is to feel it deeply, ra- 
tionally, constantly. Of the awakened mind, the first 
consciousness always is — " I do not feel ; I never did 
feel this subject as I ought. It claims to be felt. The 
solemn authority and the unspeakable goodness of 
God ; the great prospect of immortality ; the strong 
bond of duty upon my nature ; the infinite welfare of 
my soul — these are themes, if there be any such, upon 
which I ought to feel." The mind, thus aroused from 
worldly neglect to the greatest of subjects, will feel its 
coldness, its indifference to be a dreadful burthen ; 
and it will sigh for deliverance : and the preacher 
who has never such a mind to deal with, may well 
doubt whether he is preaching to any purpose. And 
in all its after course, it will hold a fervent religious 
sensibility to be indispensable to its peace. If its 
prayers are formal and heartless, if its love waxes 
cold, if its gratitude and humility are destitute of 
warmth and tenderness, it cannot be satisfied. 

And it ought not to be satisfied. This demand for 
feeling in religion, I say, is right ; it is just ; and I am 
desirous, in this discourse, to meet it and to deal with 
it as such. And yet I am about to say in the first 
place, that there are mistakes about it, and that in 
there mistakes are to be found some of the causes of 
the j availing religious insensibility. 

I. Is there not something wrong, then, in the first 
place— is there not something prejudicial to the very 
end in view, in this vehement demand of feeling ? 
I have said that it is mainly right, and that I intend 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



129 



so to regard it. But may there not be some mistake 
in the case ? May not the demand for feeling some- 
times be made to the prejudice of feeling, and to the 
prejudice, also, of real, practical virtue ? I confess 
that I have been led at times to suspect, that the 
craving of some for great religious feeling in the 
preacher, though right in fact, yet was partly wrong 
in their minds. A person conscious of great religious 
deficiency, conscious of weekly and daily aberrations 
from the right rule and the religious walk, will be glad, 
of course, to have his feelings aroused on the Sabbath; 
it gives him a better opinion of himself ; it puts him 
on a better footing with his conscience ; it, somehow, 
brings up the moral account, and enables him to go 
on, as if the state of his affairs were very well and 
prosperous. This, perhaps, explains the reason, if 
such indeed be the fact, why in some cases, a very 
pathetic and fervent preacher seems to do less good, 
than a man of much inferior endowments. In this 
latter case, the congregation cannot depend upon the 
periodical and passive excitement, and is obliged to 
resort to something else — -to some religious activity 
of its own. 

It appears to me also that the great religious excite- 
ments of the day answer the same purpose, however 
unintentionally, of keeping the people satisfied with 
general coldness and negligence. 

But I was about to observe that this urgent demand 
for feeling, is probably one of the causes of religious 
insensibility. That is to say, the directness, urgency, 
and reiteration of the demand, are unfavourable to a 
compliance with it. This importunity with regard to 
feeling does not allow it to spring up in the natural 



130 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



way. If it were applied to feeling on any other sub- 
ject, — to friendship, filial attachment, or parental affec- 
tion — how certainly would it fail of success ! Human 
feeling, in its genuine character, can never be forced, 
urged, compelled, or exhorted, into action. The pul- 
pit, I believe, has occasion to take a lesson from this 
principle of analogy. It is not the way to make the 
people feel, to be telling them constantly that they 
must feel, to be complaining continually of their cold- 
ness, to be threatening them perpetually with heaven's 
judgments upon their insensibility. And he who has 
used only these methods of awakening emotion, need 
not wonder that the people have no feeling about re- 
ligion. No, let the preacher himself feel; let him ex- 
press his feeling, not as if he had any design upon the 
feelings of others, but as if he could not help it; let 
him do this, and he will find hearts that sympathize 
with him. The chill of death may have been upon 
them , it may have been upon them for years ; the rock 
may never have been smitten, the desert never cheered; 
but there is a holy unction, a holy unction of feeling, 
which is irresistible. It is like the rod of miracles in 
the hand of Moses; the waters will flow at its touch; 
and there will be life and luxuriance and beauty, where 
all was barrenness and desolation before. 

I do not say that there will, of necessity, be actual 
regeneration, in the heart where this feeling is excited ; 
I do not say that there will certainly be fruit, where all 
this verdure and beauty are seen; for the importance 
of feeling is often exaggerated to that degree that it is 
made a substitute for practical virtue. And thus the 
mistake we are considering, is made unfavourable to 
religious sensibility in another way. For, although, at 



discourse vm. 



131 



first view, it seems to favour sensibility to make so 
much of it; although in fact it exaggerates its import- 
ance ; yet, as the nature of the exaggeration is to make 
feeling all-sufficient of itself, the effect, of course, is to 
draw off attention from that basis of principle and 
habit, which are essential to the strength and per- 
manency of feeling. This is — so much to admire the 
beauty and luxuriance of vegetation in one's field, as to 
forget and neglect the very soil from which it springs. 
Of course the luxuriance and beauty will soon fade 
away. And so the common religious sensibility, is 
like the seed which was sown upon stony places; 
forthwith it springs up because it has no deepness of 
earth; and because it has no root, it withers away. 
Or, it is like the torrent after a shower. There has 
been a commotion in the moral elements of society; 
there have been thunderings in heaven, and an out- 
pouring from the skies ; and fresh streams are gushing 
forth and flowing on every side ; and how many, in 
their agitation, their enthusiasm, and their zeal, will 
mistake these noisy freshets, for the deep, pure, silent, 
ever-flowing river of life ! 

Nay, this vehement demand for feeling tends to 
throw an interested and mercenary character over it, 
which are also extremely unfavourable to its cultiva- 
tion. There is that trait of nobleness still left in human 
nature, that it will not barter its best affections for 
advantage. He who is striving with all his might to 
feel, only because feeling will save him, is certain to 
fail. This is the reason why none are ever found so 
bitterly complaining of the want of feeling, as men 
often are, in the midst of a great religious excitement 
They see the community around them, aroused to 



132 



discourse vm. 



great emotion ; they are told that this is the way to be 
saved ; the fear of perdition presses upon them ; under 
this selfish fear, they strive, they agonize, they goad 
themselves, they would give the world to feel ; and 
the result is, that they can feel nothing! Their com- 
plaint is, and it is true, that their heart is as cold as a 
stone. No ;— men must feel religion, if at all, because 
it is right to feel it. The great subject of religion 
must sink into their hearts ; in retirement, in silence, 
without agitation, without any thought of advantage. 
They must feel if at all, involuntarily ; they must feel, 
as it were, because they cannot help feeling. 

This, too, is one of the reasons, as I believe, why 
there is so little religious sensibility, in theological 
seminaries. There is a perpetual demand for sen- 
sibility; society demands it; religious congregations 
demand it ; the student is constantly reminded by 
his fellows, by every body, that he cannot suc- 
ceed without it, that his eloquence, his popularity 
depends upon it ; and every such consideration tends 
directly to chill his heart. He is ashamed to cultivate 
feeling under such influences. Let him, then, forget 
all this ; let him forget that it is his interest, almost that 
it is his duty, to feel ; let him sit down in silence and 
meditation; let him spread the great themes of reli- 
gion before him, and with deep attention, ay, with the 
deep attention of prayer, let him ponder them ; and he 
will find that which he did not seek ; he will find that 
feeling is the least thing, the easiest thing, the most 
inevitable thing, in his experience. 

II. In the second place, there are mistakes — and 
they arise in part, from the one already stated,— con- 
cerning the characteristics and expressions of religious 



DISCOURSE VIII, 



133 



sensibility ; and these mistakes, too, like the former, 
are unfriendly to its cultivation. 

I shall not think it necessary to dwell long upon this 
topic — or, at least, not upon its more obvious aspects. 
Every one, unhappily, is but too familiar with the ex- 
travagancies, and the extravagant manifestations, of 
religious feeling. They are as public, as they are com- 
mon. Their effect, in repelling and estranging the 
feelings of multitudes from religion, is no less clear. 

In a celebrated volume of Essays published some 
years ago, you will remember one, "On the aversion 
of men of taste to Evangelical religion." The aver- 
sion is there taken for granted; and, indeed, it is suf- 
ficiently evident. Whether the taste be right, or the 
religion be right, the fact of their contrariety is indis- 
putable. The whole body of our classic English litera- 
ture — that literature with which the great mass of 
readers is constantly communing and sympathizing — 
is stamped with nothing more clearly, than an aversion 
to what is called Evangelical religion. The peculiari- 
ties of its creed, of its feelings, of its experiences, of its 
manners, of its tones of speech, have all been alike 
offensive to that taste, which is inspired by the mass of 
our best English reading. 

But the effect unhappily does not stop w 7 ith repelling 
the mind from religion in the Evangelical form. It 
repels the mind from religion in every form. And 
more especially it begets a great distrust of all reli- 
gious earnestness. Hence all the solicitude there is, 
especially among the cultivated classes, to have every 
thing sober, calm, rational, in religion. Hence the 
alarm that is so easily taken, at every appearance of 
zeal and enthusiasm. It seems to be thought by many 

12 



134 



DISCOURSE VH1* 



that there can be no religious earnestness, but what 
breaks out into extravagance and fanaticism. If they 
had not identified two things, essentially different, they 
would be no more afraid of enthusiasm in religion, 
than they are afraid of enthusiasm in science, in 
literature, in the arts, It w r ould be, in their account, a 
noble and beautiful thing. But now, the very descrip- 
tion of a person as "zealous in his religion" carries with 
it, a kind of imputation upon his understanding and liber- 
ality. Hence, in the train of consequences, it comes 
to pass that many are cold in religion. "For this 
cause, many sleep." They apparently think it better 
to sleep in security, than to wake in distraction ; they 
prefer stupor to madness; they had rather perish in 
their senses, than in a fit of insanity; this, at least, is 
the light in which matters appear to them; and how 
is it strange, that, repelled by the ordinary forms of 
religious emotion, and identifying all religious feeling 
with these, they should sink down into a cold, chilling, 
cheerless insensibility. 

But I must not leave it to be supposed, that men of 
taste and refinement alone, are exposed to this result. 
The truth is that the popular sensibility on this subject 
has been itself deficient in real strength and true fer- 
vour; it has been remarkable thus far, for wanting 
those qualities, which were necessary to give it depth 
and impressiveness in its own sphere : and from no 
quarter have there been more bitter complaints of 
coldness, than from the very sphere of fanaticism. 
The observation may seem to be a singular one, per- 
haps, and the fact scarcely credible. But if you will 
take the pains to observe, I am confident you will find 
it to be true, that the wildest sects and the wildest 



DISCOURSE VIII, 



135 



excitements are precisely those, from which there 
come from time to time, the deepest confessions of 
coldness and stupidity. Yes, in the bosom of fana- 
ticism is harboured the deepest and most painful 
doubt, about the truth and reality of all religion. And 
the reason is, that neither there, nor in any of the 
modifications of spiritual extravagance, has religion 
been familiar enough, to have become an easy, natural, 
abiding guest ; nor reflective enough to have settled 
down into a principle and habit; nor has it long 
enough rested in the soul, amidst quietness and silence, 
to have become incorporated with its nature. 

And thus it comes to pass, that in many, perhaps, in 
most minds, where religion gains admission, it is felt 
to be a strange, mysterious, extraordinary thing. I 
think, indeed, that the religious experience of the w 7 orld, 
generally, has not got beyond this point ; it is still an 
extraordinary thing. And it is obvious, that this sense 
of its being extraordinary, will not be favourable to 
composure, steadiness, and permanency of feeling, but 
rather to excitement, wonder, delight, and all those 
tumultuous emotions that speedily pass away. 

I am afraid, too, that this consciousness of religious 
experience as being something extraordinary, has 
another injurious and repulsive effect: that is to say, 
that it gives birth to that religious vanity, that spiritual 
pride, that sense of personal importance, which is so 
apt to spring up with religious zeal. I know ? , indeed, 
that the Gospel demands humility; and I know that 
Christians have been much given to self-disparage- 
ment ; but I know, too, that no sooner does a man 
" obtain religion," to use the common phrase, than his 
own sense of the great and wonderful thing which he 



136 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



conceives has happened to him, and the attentions of 
those around him, usually contribute to invest him with 
a very disagreeable air of self-importance. There is 
a strange delusion, by which a man contrives to think 
himself very humble, and to be very proud, at the same 
time. He says that he is the greatest of sinners, a most 
wonderful instance of the triumph of divine grace; 
and perhaps he is never so proud as when he says it. 
His confession is made, with a saving clause ; and the 
saving clause is very likely to be more with him, than 
the confession. He is the greatest of sinners; but 
then he is rescued. He is a most extraordinary in- 
stance of grace ; but then it follows certainly, that he 
is himself a very extraordinary person. 

Whether this be a just account of the matter or not, 
it is certain that spiritual vanity has been, thus far, in the 
world, one of the prevailing forms of religious experi- 
ence. And since this quality, — I mean, vanity — whe- 
ther religious or otherwise, is always one the most offen- 
sive and insufferable ; since it always brings more un- 
popularity upon its possessor, I had almost said, than all 
other bad qualities put together, it is not strange that it 
should have brought some discredit upon religion, and 
especially upon religious zeal and earnestness. There 
are — there must be, not a few, who will stand aside 
and aloof, and say, "let me have no religion rather than 
that:" and one of the most important duties of re- 
ligious teaching is, to show them that they may have 
religion without presumption, pride, or ostentation; 
nay and that the religion, which they hold in simpli- 
city, modesty, and singleness of heart, with no thought 
of others, with no thought of themselves, will be far 
more deep, thorough and fervent, as well as far more 
graceful and beautiful. 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



137 



There is one effect of this sense of religion as some- 
thing very extraordinary, which I must mention before 
leaving this topic; and that is upon the manifestations 
of religious sensibility. The sense of the extraordinary 
tends to give expansion and exuberance to the expres- 
sion of religious feeling — tends, if the phrase will be 
understood, to too much manifestation. Our sensibility 
always takes arms against an appearance of this sort. 
This explains the reason, why some religious conver- 
sation and some preaching, which seems to be charged 
and overcharged with religious fervour, which vents 
itself, perhaps, in a passion of tears, which is full of 
exclamations and entreaties, and exhorts us to feel 
with every moving interjection in the language, yet 
never moves us at all. The precise reason is that the 
expression is overcharged. We wonder at our insen- 
sibility perhaps; w 7 e think it is very wicked in us not 
to feel; but the fact is, we are, all this while, true to 
nature. Possibly some might think, though I will not 
suspect any one who hears me, of holding the opinion, 
that this apology ought not to be stated ; that self- 
reproach is so rare a thing, and so good a thing, that 
men should be left to accuse themselves as much as 
ever they will. I confess that 1 can understand no 
such reasoning as this. On the contrary I have regret- 
ted to hear the language of self-reproach in such cases ; 
because I do not think it just, and because, I know, 
that every false self-accusation, tends to blunt the edge 
of the true self-accusation. Doubtless, men should 
always feel religion if they can; but the question is 
now, about being made to feel it, by a particular mani- 
festation. And, I say, if the manifestation be over- 
charged; if it go beyond the feeling, rather than 

12* 



138 



DISCOURSE VIII, 



come short of it ; if there be more expression, voci- 
feration, gesture, than genuine emotion, it will inevit- 
ably, with the discerning, have an effect the very 
contrary of what was intended. No; let one speak 
to us by our fireside, or in the pulpit, with an emotion 
which he is obliged to restrain ; let it appear evident, 
that he lays a check upon his feelings ; let one stand 
before us, — I care not with what varied expression — 
with the cheek flushed or blanched, with the tear sup- 
pressed or flowing, with the voice soft or loud, only so 
that the expression never seem to outrun, to exceed 
the feeling; and he is almost as sure of our sympathy, 
as that we are human beings. 

The observation I have made on this point cannot 
be useless to any one, if it teaches only this, that 
nothing forced, or factitious will answer any good pur- 
pose in religion; that if we would accomplish any 
thing for ourselves or others in this great cause, we 
must engage in it with our whole heart; that the 
sources of real religious influence, are none other than 
the fountains of the heart — the fountains of honest, 
earnest, irrepressible sensibility. 

III. I must now add, in the third place, that there 
are mistakes, as in the vehement demand for religious 
sensibility, and concerning its nature and expressions, 
so also with regard to its Supreme Object. 

We must allow indeed that, on this point, there are 
some intrinsic difficulties. There are difficulties at- 
tending the love of an Infinite, Eternal, Invisible, In- 
comprehensible Being. Our love of him, must be 
divested of many of those sympathies, and supports, 
which enkindle and strengthen in us, the love of one 
another. We feel obliged to guard every word in 



discourse viii. 



139 



which we speak of him, and of our connection with 
him. We must not say that our communion with him, 
is sympathy; or that our love of him is attachment. 
We may not, with propriety, say that he is "dear" 
to us. Many, indeed, of those phrases, many of those 
modes of expression, in which we testify the strength 
and charm of our social affections, sink into awe and 
are hushed to silence, before that Infinite and Awful 
Being. So at least, does the subject of devotion ap- 
pear to me ; and I must confess that the familiarity of 
expression which is sometimes witnessed in prayer, is 
extremely irreverent and shocking. 

But those difficulties which it is the tendency of 
ignorance and fanaticism to overlook, it is the ten- 
dency of immature reflection and philosophy to mag- 
nify. Reflection has gone just so far with some minds 
as to make it more difficult for them, than it ought to 
be, to approach their Maker. They regard his exalta- 
tion above them, as distance ; his greatness, as separa- 
tion from them. They look upon the very phrases, 
"love of God," "communion with God," as phrases 
of daring import, and doubtful propriety. They shrink 
back from the freedom of popular language, and this 
perhaps, they rightly do ; but they retreat too far — 
they retreat to the opposite extreme of coldness, and 
cold abstractions. They are sometimes almost afraid 
to address God as a Being ; they worship some mighty 
abstraction; they are like those ancient philosophers 
who worshipped the light; they worship "an unknown 
God." I do not know that any thing but the teachings 
of Jesus, could ever have cured this error; the error 
at once of ancient philosophy and modern refinement. 
He "has brought us nigh to God." He has taught us 



140 



discourse m 



that God is our father. He has taught us to worship 
him, with the profoundest reverence, indeed, but with 
boundless confidence and love. He has taught us, that 
God does regard us; that he does look down, from the 
height of his infinite heavens — that he does look down 
upon us, and upon our world — not exclusively, as some 
religionists would teach, not as if there were no other 
world — but still that he does look down upon us, and 
our world, with paternal interest and kindness. 

The mistake now stated is one which lies at the 
very threshold of devotion. But when we enter the 
temple of our worship, how many errors are there, 
that darken its light and disfigure its beauty ! The 
veil of the Jewish peculiarity is indeed rent in twain ; 
but theology has lifted up other, and many, and dark- 
ening veils, before " the holy of holies." Our sins, too, 
have separated between us and God, and our iniqui- 
ties have hidden his face from us. Unworthy, afraid, 
superstitious, erring, grovelling in the dust, how can w r e 
love God, purely, freely, joyfully ! How, even, can 
we see the perfection of God, as we ought ! 

This, indeed, is the point upon which all difficulty 
presses. Men do not see the perfection of God. They 
do not identify that perfection, with all that is glorious, 
beautiful, lovely, admirable, and enrapturing, in nature, 
in character, in life, in existence. God's glory, they 
conceive to be something so different from all other 
glory; God's goodness, so different from all other 
goodliness and beauty, that they find no easy transition 
from one to the other. They mistake — and perhaps 
this is the most fatal part of the error — they mistake 
the very demand of God's goodness upon their love. 
They conceive of it, as if there were something arbi- 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



141 



trary, and importunate, and selfish, in the demand. 
Demand itself repels them ; because they do not under- 
stand it. They think of the Supreme Being in this 
attitude, somewhat as they would of a man, if he stood 
before them, saying, "love me; give me your heart; 
upon pain of my displeasure, and of long-enduring 
penal miseries for your disobedience." Divine good- 
ness, thus regarded, does not, and cannot, steal into 
the heart, as the excellence of a human being does. 
And this, I say, is a mistake. Divine goodness, thus 
regarded, is mistaken — misapprehended altogether. 
There is not so much that is personal in God's claim 
for our hearts, as there is in man's claim. It does not 
so much concern him, if I may speak so, that we should 
love him personally, as it concerns man, that we should 
love him personally. He is not dependent on our love, 
as man is dependent upon it. The command which 
he lays upon us to love him, is but a part of the com- 
mand to love all goodness. He equally commands us 
to love one another. Nay, he has graciously repre- 
sented the want of love to one another, as the evidence 
of want of love to him. He has thus, in a sense, iden- 
tified these affections ; and thus taught us, that an 
affection for excellence, whether in himself or in his 
creatures, is essentially the affection that he demands. 
The demand for our love, which the infinite Being ad- 
dresses to us, is infinitely generous. He requires us to 
love all goodness— to love it alike in himself and in 
others — to love goodness, for goodness' sake — to love 
it because it is just that we should love it, because it 
is right, because it is for our welfare, because, in 
one word, it is all our excellence and all our hap* 
piness. 



142 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



I must not dwell longer upon these mistakes ; but, 
in leaving this topic, let me exhort every one, to en- 
deavour to correct them. With many, this will require 
a frequent, an almost constant, effort. The influence 
of early education or of later error ; theology, super- 
stition and sin, have so overshadowed their path, 
that they must not expect to see the light, without 
much faithful endeavour. Let them be entreated 
by every thing most precious to them, to make it. 
And thus let them make the endeavour. Let them 
see God in every thing that they lawfully admire and 
love. If there be any goodliness and loveliness in 
the world; if there be any thing dear and delight- 
ful in the excellence of good men; if heaven from 
its majestic heights, if earth from its lowly beauty, 
sends one sweet, or one sublime thought into your 
mind — think, that this is a manifestation of the ever- 
beautiful, ever-blessed perfection of God. Think, 
I say emphatically, and let not your mind sleep — 
think for ever, that the whole universe of glory and 
beauty, is one revelation of God. Think thus, I 
gay, — thus faithfully and perseveringly ; and you will 
find, that no strength nor freedom of emotion in the 
world, is like the freedom and strength of devo- 
tion; that no joy, no rapture on earth, is like the 
joy, the rapture of piety! 



143 



DISCOURSE IX. 

ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY. 



EZEKIEL, 36, 26. And I will give you a heart of flesh, 

My object in the present discourse, is to offer some 
remarks upon the remedies, for the want of religious 
sensibility ; or upon the means and principles of 
its culture. 

And in entering upon this subject, I would say, that 
much is to be done by a correction of those mistakes 
which have been already mentioned. Let then some- 
thing, I would venture to say, of this vehement de- 
mand for feeling be abated. Let not the feelings of 
religion be subjected to perpetual importunity, any 
more than the feelings of friendship, or of family 
affection. Let not feeling be made to occupy a place 
in religion that does not belong to it, as if it were 
the only thing and every thing — thus drawing away 
attention from the principles that are necessary to 
give it permanency, from the soil that must nourish, 
and the basis that must support it. Let not religious 
feeling be appealed to in a w r ay to impair its simplicity, 
disinterestedness, and purity. 

In the next place, let the common mistakes about 
the nature and signs of religious sensibility be corrected. 
Let all excess and extravagance be checked as much as 
possible ; and especially let those who would cultivate a 



144 



DISCOURSE IX. 



fervent piety, make the necessary discriminations be- 
tween religion and fanaticism. Let them not conclude 
that abuses are the only forms, under which the religious 
principle can appear ; that, in order to be zealous 
Christians, it is necessary to part with their modesty, 
or their taste. In fine, let religion become so fami- 
liar that it shall cease to be, in their minds, or in their 
thoughts of it, any thing extraordinary ; and then let 
its manifestations be, like the expressions of all other 
high and pure feeling, unforced, natural, manly, 
strong, graceful, beautiful, and winning. Thus let 
our light shine before men, not as the glaring meteor, 
but as the common light of day, attractive and cheer- 
ing and constant. 

And once more, let an honest and persevering 
endeavour be made, to correct those mistakes that 
prevail about the Supreme Object, to which reli- 
gious sensibility is chiefly directed. Let not God 
be regarded as some unintelligible abstraction, or 
inaccessible majesty. Let the Christian teaching be 
welcomed ; which instructs us to believe and to feel 
that He is our Father. Let an effort be made by every 
mind to break through the clouds of superstition and 
sin, and to perceive what the divine perfection is. 
Let not God's command that we should love him be 
mistaken for any thing more arbitrary or importunate 
or personal, than is the claim of disinterested human 
excellence to be loved. Let not the divine demand 
for our love, be so construed, as to chill or repel our 
love. In fine, let no thought be suffered to enter oui 
minds that shall detract from the infinite generosity, 
the infinite dignity, the infinite beauty, of the divine 
perfection. How shall God be truly loved, if he is not 



DISCOURSE IX. 



145 



rightly known ! Let him be rightly known ; and love 
will as certainly follow, as it will follow the knowledge 
of any other— of any human or angelic excellence. I 
do not say that it will certainly follow, but as certainly. 
Nay, why, if we rightly understood the subject, should 
knot be easier to love God, than to love man? For 
man is full of imperfection that offends us, and with 
him too we are liable to have questions and competi- 
tions. But God is all-perfect; and with him, our affec- 
tions have nothing to do — but to love him. 

Let me now proceed to offer a few suggestions 
more directly, upon the remedy for religious insensi- 
bility. And here let me say, at once, that I have no 
specific to offer in the shape of a remedy ; no new, 
and before unheard of method to propose. I have no 
set of rules to lay down, a mere formal observance of 
which w r ill certainly bring about the desired result. 
Religious sensibility is to be cultivated like all other 
sensibility — i. e. rationally. And since it is impossi- 
ble within my present limits to discuss the subject in 
all its parts and bearings, I shall confine myself to the 
defence and application of the rational method. And 
the rational method is the method of attention, in the 
forms of meditation, reading, hearing, prayer ; the 
method of association, which pays regard to the indi- 
rect influences of places, times, and moods of mind ; 
and finally it is the method of consistency, by which 
no feeling is expected to be strong and satisfactory, 
but as the result of the whole character. 

My remedy, then, for religious insensibility, under 
the blessing of heaven — it might sound strangely in 
the ears of some — but I boldly say that my remedy is 
reason. It is thought ; it is reflection ; it is attention ; 

13 



146 



DISCOURSE IX, 



it is exercise of reason in every legitimate way. The 
true method, I say, is purely and strictly rational* 
And I say, moreover, that it is not that Christians have 
used their reason so much, but so little, that they have 
been so deficient in real feeling. 

Reason and feeling if thev be not the same thing: 
in different degrees of strength, are yet so intimately 
connected, that no man may ever expect, on any sub- 
ject, to feel deeply and habitually, who does not feel 
rationally. The slight sometimes thrown upon reason 
in religion, is an invasion of the first law of the mind, 
the first law of heaven. This law is " elder scrip 
turey v and no more designed to be abrogated by the 
written word, than the law of gravitation is designed 
to be abrogated by the written word. The word 
proceeds upon the assumption, that the intellect is to 
be addressed : it actually, and every where, addresses 
it. The whole theory of human affections proceeds 
upon it. The grandest theoretical mistake of all in 
religion, is that by which feeling is separated from 
the intellect. 

Nor am I at all sure, my brethren, little liable as it 
may be thought we are to the mistake, that we have 
altogether escaped it. When it is said, as it some- 
times is said, that certain preaching is too intellectual 
for a plain congregation, or too rational for an humble 
congregation, I must think, either that the meaning is 
false ; or that the terms are used in a false sense. 
There never was too much intellect — there never was 
too much reason, yet put into a sermon. There may 
have been too little feeling ; but it does not fol- 
low, that there was too much reason. There mav 
have been too much barren and useless speculation. 



DISCOURSE IX. 



147 



but not too much intellect. Some of the most prac- 
tical and devotional books in the world — such as 
Law's Serious Call, Baxter's Saints' Rest, the Ser- 
mons of Bishop Butler, and of Dr. Paley, and the 
Works of Leighton, — are specimens of the closest 
reasoning. A genuine, just, and powerful moral dis- 
course, has need to be one of the keenest, closest, and 
most discriminating compositions in the world. Such 
were the discourses of our Saviour. Nothing could 
be farther from loose, rambling, common-place ex- 
hortations. Nothing could be farther from that style, 
which says, " Oh ! my hearers, you must be good ; 
you must be pious men ; and you must feel on this 
great subject." No, the hearers, by close, cogent, 
home-put argument, were made to feel ; and they said, 
" never man spake like this man." 

I may be thought singular, but I verily believe, that 
in most moral discourses at this day, the grand defect 
is not so much a defect of feeling, as it is a defect of 
close and discriminating argument ; and that higher 
powers of argumentation are precisely what are 
wanted, in such sermons, to make them more weighty, 
practical, and impressive. And it is not the intellec- 
tual hearer, who can perhaps supply the deficiency, 
that most needs this ; but the plain hearer who is mys- 
tified, mislead, and stupified, by the want of clear and 
piercing discrimination. I have that respect for hu- 
man nature in its humblest forms, as to think that the 
highest powers of man or angel, would not be thrown 
away upon it : and I cannot believe that nothing but 
truisms and common-places, vague generalities and un- 
studied exhortations, are required in teaching religion 
to such a nature. 



148 



DISCOURSE IX. 



It is required of a man, to be sure, according to 
what he hath, and not according to what he hath not. 
But if it be thought that the utmost, and far more than 
the utmost measure, of human talent, may not be well 
employed in religious discussion, how let me ask, is 
that opinion to be defended against the charge oi 
doing dishonour to religion ? There is no other interest 
which is not held to be worthy of the profoundest dis- 
cussion. He who is to plead the cause of some 
earthly right or property before the Judges of the 
land, or its Legislators, will, by deep study, prepare 
himself to give the most able and elaborate views of 
the subject ; be it of a title or a tariff, a bond or a 
bank. It is a great occasion, and must task all the 
powers of the mind to do it justice. But "a little 
plain sense," — is not this the thought of some ? " a lit- 
tle plain sense, a little common-place thought, is good 
enough for religion !" 

There are tasks for the religious teacher ; and to 
name no other, that of disembarrassing religious ex- 
perience from the many mistakes in which it is in- 
volved, is one that must carry the preacher far enough 
beyond the range of common-place truths, valuable 
as they may be ; and one that is very necessary to 
the promotion of a just, and healthful religious sensi- 
bility. And this only amounts to saying, that there 
are new things to be said, new views to be given in 
religion ; that, not plain and obvious things only are 
to be said, but that there is something to be told to 
many which they did not think of before. And what 
though the preacher feel his subject, and the people 
be impressed ; yet after all, the impression, the feel- 
ing may have much in it that is wrong. The whole 



DISCOURSE IX. 



149 



subject of religious sensibility, its sources and the me- 
thods of its culture, may be very ill understood ; and 
there is no little evidence that it is ill understood, 
from the fact, that most religious feeling is so artifi- 
cial, so mechanical, so periodical, and fluctuating, and 
uncertain, instead of being habitual, and healthful, and 
strong. A man may feel very much, within a very 
narrow compass of thought. Who has not often ob- 
served it ? But who that has observed it, would not 
think it desirable to carry him beyond this little me- 
chanism, by which he continues from time to time, (if 
I may speak so) to grind out a certain amount of feel- 
ing. — to cam" him bevond. I say, to those wide and 
generous views of religion, to that intelligent culture 
of his nature, from which religious feeling will spring 
naturally and freely, and flow abundantly, and in a 
full and living stream. There is all the difference 
here, and only of infinitely greater importance, that 
there is between the slavish machinist, governed bv 
rules, and the intelligent artisan, discovering princi- 
ples, constantly inventing, and improving, and ever 
going on to perfection. 

But it is time that I should proceed from the de- 
fence to the more particular application of my pro- 
position. And this is, that feeling in religion, to be 
deep and thorough, to be habitual, to be relied on to 
spring up with unvarying promptitude at every call of 
religion, must be rationed, perfectly rational ; rational 
in its nature, its methods of culture, its ends. You 
ask how you shall learn to feel on the subject of reli- 
gion, — with spontaneous freedom, with unaffected de- 
light, and with true-hearted earnestness — how you 
shall learn to feel in religion as you do in friendship, 

13* 



150 



DISCOURSE IX. 



and in the family relations — -and I answer, rationally. 
And I say, moreover, that provided a man really and 
honestly desires and strives to feel, the reason why he 
fails, is, that there is something irrational in his views, 
irrational in his seeking, irrational in the whole me- 
thod of his procedure. He has irrational views of the 
nature of religious feeling. He expects it to be some 
strange sensation, or something supernatural, or some 
hallucination, or something, he knows not what. Or 
he has w r rong views of God. He does not see the 
glory and loveliness of his perfection. Or he has 
wrong ideas of the methods of obtaining religious 
feeling. He is, indolently, waiting for it, or irra- 
tionally expecting it to come upon him in some inde- 
scribable manner, or unreasonably looking for an 
influence from above, which God has never promised. 
For although he has promised help, he has not prof- 
fered in that help, any thing to be substituted for our 
own efforts : and our efforts are to be every way just 
as rational, as if he had promised nothing. Or, the 
seeker of religion has irrational views of the end. He 
does not distinctly see, that his perfection, his happi- 
ness, is the end. If he did, he would be drawn on to 
seek it, with a more willing and hearty earnestness. 
No, but he feels as if the demand for his heart in this 
matter, were a mere arbitrary requisition, as if it were 
the bare will of some superior Being, without any 
reason for it. He seeks religion, because he vaguely 
and blindly apprehends that it is something — that it is 
the prominent idea of thousands — something which 
he must have. 

I say, that the process of obtaining a high and de- 
lightful religious sensibility, that sensibility which 



DISCOURSE IX. 



151 



makes prayer always fervent and meditation fruit- 
ful and satisfying, must be rational, and nothing but 
rational. And I do not say this, in any spirit of defi- 
ance towards that prevailing opinion which has fas- 
tened on this word, rational, the idea of coldness and 
indifference. I say it, because in sober truth and 
earnestness, I know of no other way to feel the deep 
sense of religion, but to feel it rationally. It is out of 
my power — is it within any man's power ? — to con- 
ceive of any other way to awaken emotion, but to fix 
the mind on those objects that are to awaken it. If I 
would feel the sentiment of gratitude and love to my 
Creator, I can conceive of no way of doing so, but to 
think of his goodness, his perfection ; to spread before 
my mind, all the images and evidences of his majesty, 
his perfection, his love. If I would feel the charms of 
virtue, I must contemplate her — I must see "virtue in 
her shape, how lovely." If I would love good men, — 
which is a part of religion — I must know them, and 
mingle with them: I must talk with them, or read of 
them, and spread the story of their generous and 
blessed deeds before me. And thus, also, and for the 
same reason, if I would love God I must not only con- 
template him as has been already said, but I must be 
familiar with the contemplation of his being and per- 
fection. Earth through all her fair and glorious scenes 
must speak to me, of him. The sacred page, with all 
its gracious words of teaching and promise, must speak 
to me of him. And I must listen with gladness, w 7 ith 
a sense of my high privilege, and with joy must I com- 
mune, with all the teachings of God to me, as I 
would commune with the w T ords of a friend. This is 
the rational process. 



152 



DISCOURSE IX. 



But this, my friends, is not to say, that "we hope we 
we shall some time or other, attain to the love of God" 
or that " we desire it," or that, "it is difficult," or that 
"we fear we never shall reach it" — it is not saying, 
and saying, this or that, in a sort of ideal, or idle specu- 
lation ; but it is doing something. It is seeking to feel 
the power of religion, as we seek to feel the power of 
other things — of the arts, of philosophy, of science, of 
astronomy, or of music — attentively, sedulously, with 
a careful use of opportunities, with a heedful regard 
to circumstances. The rational method then, is the 
method of attention. 

But in the next place, the rational method is the 
method of association; or, in other words, it is a 
method, which regards that great law of the mind, the 
law of association. It pays regard to places and times 
and seasons, and moods of mind. It is partly an in- 
direct method. It is, putting ourselves in the way of 
obtaining a sense of religion. 

The direct effort is to be valued for all that it is 
worth. And its value, indeed, is such that it is indis- 
pensable. Certainly, where the religious character is 
to be formed, after our arrival at the period of adult 
years, periodical and private meditation and prayer 
seem to be essential aids. There is much to learn, and 
much to overcome, and there should be definite sea- 
sons and direct efforts, for these purposes. But it 
would be irrational to make these seasons and efforts 
the only means. If we should attempt to form a friend- 
ship for a human being, by such a series of fixed and 
direct contemplations alone, it is easy to see that they 
would be very likely to be injurious, to create in our 
minds a set of repulsive or irksome associations with 



DISCOURSE IX. 



153 



the human being in question, however amiable and 
excellent he might be. It would require the effect of 
many indirect influences to blend with these, and give 
them their proper character. So in the cultivation of 
a devotional spirit, it is not safe to trust to prayers 
and meditations alone. Many wise and good men, in 
their writings, have recommended that the most 
special heed be given to those visitations of tender and 
solemn emotion, those touches of holy sensibility, those 
breathings of the Spirit of all grace, which steal into 
the heart unsolicited, and offer their heavenly aid, un- 
sought. Let not him who would catch the sacred 
fervour of piety, venture to neglect these gracious in- 
timations. Let him not neglect to put himself in the 
way of receiving them. Let him not willingly invade 
the holy Sabbath hours with business or pleasure, or 
forsake the assemblies where good men meditate and 
pray, or resist the touching signs of nature's beauty or 
decline, or turn away from the admonition of loneli- 
ness and silence, when they sink deep into the heart 
Or, if he does turn away, and avoid, and resist all this, 
let him not say that he seeks or desires the good gift 
of the grace of God, the gift of light and love and holy 

Finally, the rational method is a method of consis- 
tency. Religious feeling to be itself rational, and to 
be rationally sought, must not be expected to spring 
up as the result of any thing else, than the whole cha- 
racter. You desire to feel the power of religion. Do 
not expect, do not desire, to feel it, but as an impres- 
sion upon your whole mind and heart, the general tone 
and tenor of all your sentiments, and affections, the 
consenting together of your reflections, and action^ 



154 



DISCOURSE IX. 



and habits. If you feel it, as some peculiar thing, 
something singular in you, and technical in your very 
idea of it, as something apart from your ordinary self ; 
if it is either a flame of the imagination, or a warmth 
of the affections, or a splendour of sentiment — one of 
them alone and not all of them together — it will cer- 
tainly lead you astray : it will be but a wavering and 
treacherous light. It may appear to you very bright. 
It may lead you to think well of yourself ; far better 
than you ought to think. But it will be only a glaring 
taper, instead of the true light of life. 

An irrational fervour is often found to stand in di- 
rect contrast to the rest of the character ; to general 
ignorance, to want of moral refinement and deli- 
cacy, and of daily virtue. There is not only a zeal 
without knowledge, but there is a zeal which seems 
to thrive exactly in proportion to the want of know- 
ledge ; that bursts out, from time to time, like a flame 
from thick smoke, instead of shining with any clear 
radiance and steady light. But it is the distinctive 
mark of rational feeling, that it rises gradually, and 
steadily gains strength ; like the spreading of daylight 
upon the wakening earth. Hence, it rises slowly ; 
and no one should be discouraged at small beginnings ; 
and no one should expect or wish to rush into the full 
flow of religious sensibility, at once. 

I repeat it ; this sensibility, if rational, must be felt 
as the spirit of the whole character : and he would do 
well to tell us nothing of his joys, of whom nothing can 
be told, concerning his virtues, his self-denials, his 
general and growing improvement, the holy habits 
and heavenly graces of his character and life. Dost 
thou love good men, and pity bad men ; is thy heart 



DISCOURSE IX. 



155 



touched with all that is generous and lovely around 
thee ; is thine eye opened to all that is like God in his 
creatures and works ? Then, and not till then, am I 
prepared to hear of thy love to God. Dost thou, in- 
deed, love that great and kind Being ? Dost thou, 
indeed, love that intrinsic, infinite, eternal, inexpressi- 
ble beauty and glory of the divine perfection ? Then, 
truly, art thou prepared rightly to love all who bear 
his image, and to pity and pray for all who bear it not; 
then, does thy social and religious sensibility flow on 
in one stream, full and entire, steady and constant — a 
living stream — a stream like that which floweth fresh, 
full, perennial, eternal, at the right hand of God ! 

My brethren ! it is constant : so far at least as any 
thing human can bear that character ; it is constant. 
He who will rationally cultivate the sense of religion, 
both directly, and indirectly, and as the consent and 
tendency of all his habits, may be just as certain of 
feeling it, as he is certain of loving his friend, his 
child, his chief interest. It is one of the irrational 
aspects of the common religious sensibility, that its pos- 
sessors have usually spoken of it, as if it were totally 
uncertain whether, on a given occasion, they should 
feel it or not. They have gone to church, they have 
gone to their private devotions, with a feeling, as if it 
were to be decided, not by the habits of their own 
minds, but by some doubtful interposition of divine 
grace, whether they were to enjoy a sense of religion 
or not. But, my friends, nothing can be more certain 
to him who will rationally, heartily, and patiently cul- 
tivate the religious sensibilities of his soul, than that 
he shall, on every suitable occasion, feel them. It is, 
to him, no matter of distressing doubt and uncertainty. 



156 



DISCOURSE IX. 



He knows in whom he has believed. He knows in 
what he has confided. He knows, by sure experi- 
ence, that as certainly as the themes of religion pass 
before him, they will, physical infirmity only excepted, 
arouse him to the most intense and delightful exercise 
of all his affections. He is sure — when the fulness of 
the blessing of the gospel of Christ is presented before 
him — he is like Paul, sure that he shall enter into it. 
Not that this is any boasting assurance of the devoted 
Christian. God forbid ! He knows his weakness. 
But he knows, that by the very laws of the divine 
goodness and grace, if he will be faithful, no good 
thing shall be wanting to him. 

Christian brethren ! we hear much, in these days, 
about excitement. Why, every prayer — of a Chris- 
tian at once perfectly rational, and perfectly devoted 
— every prayer is an excitement ; and every religious 
service, every sermon, is an excitement as great as 
he can well bear ; and every day's toil of virtue, and 
contemplation of piety, is a great and glorious excite- 
ment. Excitements ! Is a man never to be moved by 
his religion but when some flood of emotion is sweep- 
ing through society — when agitation and disorder and 
confusion are on every side of him ? Is it only when 
the tenor of quiet life, the pursuits of industry, the 
pleasures of relaxation, are all broken up, that he is 
to feel the power of religion ? I do not say that this 
is any body's theory ; but if this is the fact that results 
from any form of religious teaching, then I ask, for 
what end was the whole tenor of life — for what end 
were the pursuits of industry and the pleasures of so- 
ciety ordained ? For what was the whole trial of life 
—so exquisitely moral, so powerfully spiritual- — for 



DISCOURSE IX. 



157 



what was it appointed, if the seasons for obtaining 
religious impressions are so ordered by human inter- 
ference, that they come only in idleness, disorder, and 
a derangement of the whole system of life ? Excite- 
ments in religion ! Are they to be things occasional, 
and separated by the distance of years ? Is a man to 
be excited about religion, only in a certain month, or 
in the winter ; and when that month, or that winter is 
past — yes, when all nature is bursting into life, and 
beauty, and songs of praise — is the religious feeling 
of the people to be declining into worse than wintry 
coldness and death ? Is this, religion ? — the religion 
whose path shineth brighter and brighter to the per- 
fect day ? 

Let us have excitements in religion — but then let 
them be such as may be daily renewed, as never need 
to die away. Any excitement in society that can bear 
this character, I would heartily go along with. The 
Christian religion, I am sure, was designed powerfully 
to excite us ; nothing on earth so much — nothing in 
heaven more. It was designed to arouse our whole 
nature, to enrapture our whole affection, to kindle in 
us a flame of devotion, to transport us with the hope 
and foretaste of heaven. But its excitements, if they 
be like those that appeared in the great teacher, are 
to be deep, sober, strong, and habitual. Such excite- 
ments may God ever grant us ; not periodical but 
perpetual ; not transient but enduring ; not for times 
and seasons only, but for life ; not for life only, but for 
eternity ! 

14 



158 



DISCOURSE X. 

ON INDIFFERENCE TO RELIGION* 



L PETER 1. 17. And if te call on the Father, who 

"WITHOUT RESPECT OF PERSONS JUDGETH ACCORDING TO 
EVERY MAN'S WORE, PASS THE TIME OF YOUR SOJOURNING 
HERE IN FEAR. 

I have lately spoken to you of religious insensi- 
bility. I propose now to address myself to the case 
of religious indifference. It is a case which differs 
from the former, though the word may seem to import 
nearly the same thing ; and it differs in this respect — 
that it is held by him to whom it appertains, to be ca- 
pable of some defence. A want of feeling in religion 
is one thing, and it is a thing which a man often re- 
grets ; he never, perhaps, boasts of it. But a want 
of all interest about religion is another thing. It is a 
position which a man sometimes voluntarily assumes 
to himself, which is preliminary with him to the very 
grounds on which religious feeling is claimed, and 
which, therefore, he defends. He has not got so far 
as to allow the demand for feeling, to be brought 
home to his conscience ; he has stopped short at the 
threshold of the whole subject ; he denies that he is 
hound to take any particular interest in it ; and is 
proud, it may be, of his independence, and exemption 



DISCOURSE X. 



159 



from that great claim. Religious insensibility, then, 
admits and regrets its deficiency, or acknowledges, at 
least, that such regret would be proper ; religious in- 
difference does not admit so much ; it defends itself. 

We have not, therefore, as on the former subject, 
merely to point out causes, but we have now to com- 
bat reasons. We have to argue with those who main- 
tain that they have reasons, for not taking any deep 
interest, or decided part, in religion. 

What the nature of the reasons is, will appear in 
making another distinction. For there is a distinction 
to be made, as between insensibility and indifference, 
so also between indifference, and positive criminality. 
The plea of crime, or of vice in general, is, that 
passion is so strong and the temptation so great, that 
there is hardly power to resist: a plea, however, 
which was never made, without the consciousness of 
guilt, and the strong contradiction of the offender's 
own mind. But indifference says to the earnest and 
solemn preaching of the Gospel, " I am very well as I 
am now. I do not need religion ; I do not feel the need 
of it; my mind acknowledges no such want. The 
world suffices me, life satisfies me, without religion; I 
am very well as I am now." This may be called per- 
haps, the practical apology of indifference ; the apology 
which a man finds, or conceives that he finds, in the 
state of his mind. But, indifference has also a theoret- 
ical defence ; it shelters itself, sometimes, under the 
apology of a limited creed. It says, to the earnest and 
solemn preacher of the Gospel, "I do not believe as 
you do ; those moral dangers, those fearful doctrines, 
those dreadful warnings, which are preached to the 
people, I do not believe in : if I did, I should be bound, 



160 



DISCOURSE X, 



I admit, to be aroused to anxiety and earnestness." 
The neglecters of religion are often found taking ad- 
vantage of the controversies that prevail, and they say, 
"we do not know about these things; some hold to 
one thing, and some to another ; even learned men dif- 
fer ; and we do not know, in fact, whether any thing 
is true." 

These are the two classes of reasons for religious 
indifference, and I intend to consider them in order. 
But let us dwell a moment longer on the case itself ; 
that in arguing on this subject, we may fight, not as 
one that beateth the air. 

It is not indifference to certain circumstances in re- 
ligion — to certain creeds, to certain forms, or to certain 
measures and enterprises in religion, against which I 
wish now to contend ; but it is against that indifference 
which is vital. It is against indifference to the religious 
care and improvement of one's self. It is against that 
indifference which refuses to meditate, or read, or pray, 
or watch, or strive for the guidance, keeping, restraint 
and salvation of the soul— an indifference which holds 
these very terms — -"keeping and salvation of the soul," 
to be out of its sphere entirely. It is against that indif- 
ference which has put on the almost impenetrable 
armour of settled habit and professed character ; 
which is untouched by the most solemn appeals of the 
pulpit, because it says, "these are matters that I do 
not pretend to be zealous about ;" or it is against the 
indifference, which, if moved for the moment, imme- 
diately relapses into the same old mood of mind, and 
says the same thing, in effect— all the week through, 
and all the year round. It is against the indifference, 
whether of philosophy that is too wise 3 or fashion that 



DISCOURSE X. 



161 



is too frivolous, whether of wickedness that is too bold, 
or of worldliness that is too easy, to care for any of 
these things. Nay more ; it is against that indiffer- 
ence, which is not real; which assumes a garb for the 
sphere it moves in; which, while there really are deep 
reflections and conscious wants, and thrilling solici- 
tudes within, puts on a cold exterior towards religion, 
and consents to pass on the foolish jest and the slight- 
ing remark on this subject, because such is the tone of 
the society in which it moves. Not a little is there of 
this assumed indifference in the world. 

And where the indifference is real, I do not say 
that it always appears in a very manifest, or fully de- 
veloped and complete form. Moral states of mind sel- 
dom are very definite or complete. Religious indiffer- 
ence has many shades and degrees and disguises, and 
it defends itself by various, and sometimes almost un- 
conscious, and even contradictory reasonings ; so that 
I cannot on any account hold myself responsible for 
the supposition that it is always, one, obvious, and pal- 
pable thing. It is enough to say that there is, and is 
acknowledged to be, a large class of persons in the 
Christian world, in whom there are tendencies either 
to the neglect of all external religion, to forms, to pub- 
lie worship of every kind ; — or what is much more 
serious — to the neglect of all personal interest, of all 
vital concern, with the subject. They do not con- 
sider this as a matter with which they have any thing 
to do. Business belongs to them, or professional labours 
belong to them; and to think about these things, to in- 
quire, to read, to take an interest about things of 
a worldly nature, — all this is, with them, a part of the 
recognised object, and plan, and pursuit of life. But 

14* 



162 



DISCOURSE X. 



religion has no such place in their thoughts — not even 
in their Sabbath thoughts. It is not an object to them 
any time. It is not an interest with them, ever. They 
care for none of these things. 

The pertinency of my text to this case, I may 
now observe, and to the course of remark which I 
contemplate, lies in this ; that the demand for a very 
serious and even anxious concern in religion, is there 
supported on the ground of a very limited creed. "If 
ye call on the Father who without respect of persons 
judgeth every man's work; pass the time of your 
sojourning here in fear." My argument, with religious 
indifference, then, from the spirit of my text, is, to the 
following effect: that which is certainly true, in life and 
in the mind — that which almost every man believes to 
be true in the creed, or in the Bible — and in fine, that 
which the sceptic denies to be true, — each and all of 
these, are considerations and grounds for the deepest 
concern about religion. 

Our text says, and it says to all, without exception, 
"live in the present world in fear;" i. e. not in slavish 
dread, of course, but in a just fear, in a pious reverence 
towards God, and faithful guardianship over the con- 
science. And it says this concerning the whole of life; 
"pass the time of your sojourning here" in this 
wisdom and piety. And then, as an argument for thus 
living, it lays down these simple positions — undeniable 
by all but unbelievers, and generally admitted even by 
them — "if ye call on the Father who without respect 
of persons, judgeth every man's work," live thus. 

Let us then look at this indifference in its strong 
hold of negations — -its pleas, that it does not believe 
so much as others, or that it does not need religion, 



DISCOURSE X. 



163 



Let us see, if what every man must admit, as a matter 
of experience, and what almost every man does admit 
as a matter of faith; nay, and if what any man may 
please to deny as a matter of faith, does not afford an 
argument for the utmost religious consideration, soli- 
citude, and sensibility. 

My first concern is, with what every man must ad- 
mit as a matter of experience and of fact. Let us then 
direct our attention to life and to the mind — the scene 
of events and the being who experiences them — and 
let us direct our attention to them, first, in connection 
with each other. 

Whenever a man looks around him, there are cer- 
tain things which he must acknowledge. He is a living 
man, and there is a scene of life, there are events and 
ordinances of life for him to pass through — events and 
ordinances of life which he must pass through, let his 
character be what it may. It is striking indeed, to 
think that every mind, however reckless and trifling, 
must fall upon all the trials, the allotments, the fates of 
this mortal and momentous existence. The boast of 
health is no shield against disease ; nor the frivolity of 
pleasure, against sadness and sorrow. Avarice must 
come to the hour of utter destitution : and pride to the 
hour of utter prostration. How powerful a call to reli- 
gion, then, is life itself! How powerfully does it forbid 
all indifference ! Life, Xrepeat,with ail that makes it up; 
with all its great and solemn ordinations of toil, and 
endurance, and vicissitude, and sickness, and affliction; 
with all its periods — of glowing youth, and sober man- 
hood, and thoughtful age ; life, with its trembling ties 
of friendship, its holy rites of marriage, its sympathies 
of kindred, and its homes of affection; with its attend- 



164 



DISCOURSE X. 



ance on sickness and languishment, and its last sad 
offices to the beings of its love and companionship — 
life, I repeat, the body's frailty and decay, the souPs 
conflict, the mind's discipline, the heart's solemn moni- 
tress — Oh ! who can look with indifference to the Or- 
dainer of such a lot? Who can live, and die, in perfect 
unconcern with regard to the Being, who has made 
him to live, and die? I confess that to my own mind, 
it seems inevitable that 1 should be moved in some 
way, yes, religiously moved, by this experience of life. 
If I were impious I should rail at it ; if I were devout, 
I should humbly submit to its discipline ; but not to 
feel at all ! — I must be a stock, or a stone ! Life — by 
every joy, by every sorrow of it ! — life is no neutral 
scene ; and how can — how can he who experiences 
it, be neutral? 

Surely, I take the lowest ground of supposition; and 
yet I demand — since I cannot demand religious exe- 
cration and wrath — I demand the loftiest height of 
piety. A living man — take that bare supposition, 
which is yet something beyond that of mere existence 
— a living man, I repeat, should be a religious man. I 
said not, a living animal ; but a man, — that takes not. 
and cannot take life as a beast does; that sees and 
must see in it, something of deeper import ; — and yet 
of an import which nothing but religion can fully com- 
prehend and fathom. For religion is at once the only 
proper end of life, and its only sufficient and satisfac- 
tory interpreter. And I do aver, both for the immediate 
and the ultimate reason, that he who comes to reflect 
deeply on what he is, and what is around him, upon 
the world without, and the world within him, cannot 
get along with any satisfaction or comfort unless he 



DISCOURSE X. 



165 



takes the guidance of religion. I have said that he 
must be religious in some way, but I further insist that 
to get along with any satisfaction, he must be religious 
in the right way. I do say, and fearlessly say, that he 
who should reflect thoroughly and deeply on life, could 
no more think of living without God in the world than he 
could think of living without the bounty of nature ; that 
prayer would be as necessary to him as food; and the 
faith of his soul, as indispensable as the sight of his 
eyes. 

I know the strength of this language, and what may 
be alleged against it. I know that there are men of 
general integrity and worth, who, with a sort of ami- 
able ease or indolence of spirit, say, that " they are 
well enough as they are." I think, too, that I under- 
stand the meaning of this language, and 1 distinctly 
see, as I apprehend, that it does not go to the depth — ■ 
no, nor any where near to the depth, of their nature 
and their wants. They are "well enough," in a worldly 
sort — well enough, because they are comfortable, 
and prosperous. But will all this meet the great, the 
general, and the urgent want of the human heart? 
Does the heart never ask any thing that riches cannot 
give? Does it never sigh for a peace that the world 
cannot give? I know not what the worldly heart may 
answer; but this I know, that some of the most bitter 
complainers, that ever poured out the language of 
satire and scorn and disgust upon this world, are pre- 
cisely the most worldly beings in it. No, the world 
does not satisfy the worldly; and they know it. How 
is it possible that it should do so, if the mind of a 
worldly man be still a mind; — if there be any thing in 
him that can be called a mind ! 



166 



DISCOURSE X. 



Why, even the senses range far beyond this world. 
Fix thine eye upon a star, in the infinite distance and 
depth of heaven. What beam is that which visiteth 
thee from afar? If I were to pause now for the brief 
space of only eight minutes, a ray from the sun would, 
in that brief interval, have traversed almost an hundred 
millions of miles, to reach us ! What beam, then, is 
that which visiteth thee from far, far beyond the pre- 
cincts of solar day? Through the slow revolutions of 
years — I speak the astronomical fact ; — for aught thou 
knowest, before thou wast created — I speak the astro- 
nomical doubt ; — for aught thou knowest, before the 
world was created, that ray of light left its native seats, 
and through distances awful, and inconceivable, 
through the silent lapse and the slow revolution of 
years unknown, that ray of light has been travelling 
onward, and onward, till it has fallen on thy poor weak 
sense. Now, follow it back, on the line of its immea- 
surable progress, to its original sphere, its home which 
it hath left to teach thee — and does thy mind stop 
there? No : nor there, nor any where does it stop, but 
beyond and beyond, to infinity, to eternity, it wanders. 
And can that mind say, that it is "well enough" in a 
little earthly comfort and a few worldly possessions? 
Can the soul, that spans the universe, and measures 
ages, be content with a grain of sand upon this shore 
of time? No. Hold thou the measureless ocean in the 
hollow of thy hand; and then, mayest thou curb the 
swellings of thought, passion, and desire, to that narrow 
compass. Garner up the treasures of infinite worlds 
in thy coffer: and then mayest thou lock up in that 
coffer, the affections that are expanding to the grasp 
of infinity, No, mistaken soul ! thine eye spans the 



DISCOURSE X. 



167 



arch of heaven — thy soaring thought riseth to the eter- 
nal stars; thine aim must be broad and boundless as 
those pathways of heaven. As surely as thou livest, 
thou must live religiously, virtuously, wisely. Life is 
an argument for piety. Sense is a guide to faith. Time 
should bear our thoughts, as it is bearing our souls, 
to eternity ! 

But there are other witnesses to be summoned in 
this argument, besides events, and their unavoidable 
impression. There are distinct wants in the mind. 
Amidst the cares and conflicts of this life, there are 
certain ultimate objects, in which all men are interest- 
ed. One of these objects is happiness. I say, then — 
I may say to every man, however irreligious — thou 
wouldst be happy. 

Thou wouldst be happy. When thou art happiest, 
— still something is w T anting — and thou wouldst be 
happier. When thy thought is brightest, a shade like 
the shadow of a cloud upon the fairest landscape, 
cometh over thee, and thou wouldst, thy thought were 
brighter. When thy possessions are most abundant, 
there is yet a want in thy mind ; and thou would have 
a more satisfying fulness within. Is there any thing 
but what is all-perfect, and infinite, and immortal, that 
can satisfy thee? But the all-perfect and the infinite, 
and the immortal, belong to the province of religion ; 
and if thou wouldst find them, thou must find them, in 
her glorious sphere. 

But again I say; thou w T ouldst he happy. Thou 
wouldst be happy — ay, thou wouldst, indeed, be so, 
when thou art not happy; for what is so intolerable as 
misery? Thou wouldst be happy when thou art sick; 
when thou art sorrowful; when thou art bereaved. 



168 



DISCOURSE X. 



When thou art cast down, and almost crushed by 
some of the thousand, nameless, burthens of life, thou 
wouldst be happy. And dost thou know, canst thou 
conceive of any thing, that can make thee happy in 
these circumstances, but religion? 

But again, in regard to this matter of happiness, 1 
may say to every one, — something troubles you, at one 
time or another, — something is the matter with you. 
What is it? What aileth thee, O never satisfied man ! 
What is it? What is it, that takes from the joy of life, 
when at the fullest; or disturbs the clear and over- 
flowing fountain, or embitters its waters? What is it? 
You tell me of events, of annoyances, of a troublesome 
world, of the vexations of life. Do you not know, that 
life and the world, are the reflection of yourself— the 
image without, of the reality within? What is it, 
then? Ah ! it is evermore, some unholy passion — pride 
or envy, or sensual excess, or the workings of a selfish, 
ungenerous, ungrateful mind. A calm and self-govern- 
ed temper, a benevolent gladness of spirit, the cheer- 
fulness of a good conscience, the gentle affections of 
piety, would make every fountain of earthly good, a 
fountain of real peace and happiness. Does any man 
deny this? Does the most confirmed sceptic, or the 
boldest scorner, deny it? Religion, then, above all 
other things is commended to the desire of happiness. 
It comes near, it is adjunct, to that great desire. It 
belongs to it ; — as light to the eye that would see ; as 
food to the hunger that would be satisfied. Deep, then, 
impatient, unquenchable as that desire is, strongly, 
unceasingly, eternally as it beats, like the pulse of ex- 
istence, in the human heart, so deeply, so strongly, so 
unceasingly, should the human heart be interested 



DISCOURSE X, 



169 



about that which alone can give it happiness : inter- 
ested, not merely as in something future and far off, 
but as in something of present, pressing, instant con- 
cern. If the heart knew its own welfare it would be 
so interested. And the very soul of youth would not 
burn with a love of unholy pleasure, so intense, but 
it would be quenched in the holy tears of that supplica- 
tion, " Oh ! satisfy me early with thy mercy, that I may 
be glad and rejoice in thee all my days." 

Once more and with regard to the wants of the 
mind, and the ultimate objects of life : if you are a 
reasonable being, you would improve. If you were 
a brute, you might neither know nor care any thing 
for this. But if you are a reasonable being you must 
desire to improve. You cannot stop at the point you 
have now reached, and be satisfied. You would, you 
must go onward ; and you never will come to the 
point- — it is not in your nature ever to come to the 
point — from which you would not go onward ! A 
thousand ages of improvement would find you still 
asking to go onward. Can you then be indifferent to 
that religion whose sphere is eternity ? 

Indeed, my brethren, how much religion might do 
for us — not alas ! how much it does, but how much it 
might do for us, in this matter of improvement— how 
much not only to subdue the passions and control the 
conduct, but to soften the heart, and the very manners ; 
how much to unfold the genius, to develop the pow- 
ers of the mind ; how much to cheer and quicken the 
soul, to give it courage, to inspire it with a pure and 
noble ambition to rise to true greatness : — how much 
of all this, religion might do, in the w T ork of moral cul- 
ture, and of early education, I fear we but little con- 

15 



170 



DISCOURSE X. 



sider, and but poorly comprehend. And yet a very 
plain argument might show it. If we would train an 
artist to excellence we place before him perfect 
models. If we would raise any one to the loftiest 
virtue, we direct him constantly to fill his mind with 
the noble image, the divine idea of it. Prayer carries 
us, at once, to the infinite original and image of all 
goodness. Piety, meekness, and forgiveness, bear us 
to the company of Jesus. In heartily communing 
with such objects as religion places before us, with 
the love of God, with the simple gospel of Christ, 
with his sacred precepts, with his divine example, it 
is impossible but that every thing good or godlike in 
us, should improve. And the man who says that he 
desires to improve, and yet is indifferent to such a re- 
ligion, presents a solecism in morals, as great as he 
would do, who, professing the desire to be rich, should 
turn away from the wealthiest mine, or the most 
gainful traffic. 

And does a mind that turns away from this great 
opportunity, say that it is well enough as it is? 
Would it satisfy you, if your child, indolently neglect- 
ing his studies, should say that he is well enough as he 
is ? And will the great Giver of life, and law-giver of 
the heart, be satisfied with such an answer from you ? 
Is it what he reasonably expects from such a nature 
as he has given you ? Not advancing, not improving, 
not using any of those principles of improvement 
which are essentially the principles of religion ; and 
yet well enough ? A stock or a stone, were it endow- 
ed with consciousness, might say that ! An animal, 
whose distinctive nature it is, never to improve, might 
say that ! But for a man to say that — for a man — ne- 



DISCOURSE X. 



171 



glecting the Sabbath, neglecting his Bible, neglecting 
prayer — to say that he is well enough in that condi- 
tion — what better is it than the fancied well-being of 
insanity ? Nay, better for a man, than that fancied 
well-being, provided he clings to the delusion — better 
were it for him if he had never been born ! 

I have now considered what may be called the 
practical apology for religious indifference, and must 
defer the consideration of the theoretical defence, till 
our next meditation. The practical apology, I have 
said, is one which a man finds in the state of his own 
mind, and which is briefly expressed in the declara- 
tion, that he does not want any thing of religion ; that 
he is well enough without it. 

To me, I must confess, this state of mind is one of 
the greatest of mysteries. We hear much of the mys- 
teries of religion, and the negligent and indifferent 
are the very persons, perhaps, who complain most of 
mysteries, and even make of them an apology for their 
indifference. But I confess that they themselves pre- 
sent in their own persons, anomalies and mysteries, 
that go farther than all others, to stagger and con- 
found not only faith, but reason itself. It is the most 
inconceivable thing in human experience, that any 
man with the feelings and reflections of a man, should 
be able to take and hold a position of absolute indif- 
ference, with regard to a subject so all-embracing 
and intimately connected with him, as religion. If I 
did not know the fact to be so ; if it were not a 
matter of confession and even of boast with some, I 
should scarcely be able to believe it. No testimony, 
I am ready to say — nothing but confession, could con- 
vince me of it. For I do not know what the life of 



172 



DISCOURSE X. 



a mind is, that can be thus estranged from religion. 
Occupying a point of space amidst infinite systems of 
beauty and harmony — a breathing hour of time, be- 
tween the eternity past, and the eternity to come ; 
seeing clear manifestations of boundless power and 
wisdom on every side in the whole creation, and yet 
ignorant of ten thousand mysteries, that fill that crea- 
tion from its lowest depth to its topmost height ; a 
mind seeing this, and feeling this, and tried, too, with 
the ten thousand events of life — ay, and suffering, 
often-times sinking, and yet at other times soaring and 
aspiring to things infinite and immortal ; — that mind, 
I say — what is it ? — What is it made of, and what is it 
made for, if it does not sometimes stretch out the 
hand of entreaty, for a guidance and support, for a 
voice of teaching and a solution of mysteries, beyond 
this world ? Let it be so, that right, and rectitude, and 
obligation, and duty were all out of the question : yet 
where is curiosity ? Where is the questioning that 
belongs to a thoughtful and intelligent creature, amidst 
a scene like this ? It is a mystery, I will not say, of 
iniquity; but it is a mystery of dulness, surpassing 
all comprehension. O ! men of this world, whosoever 
ye are !— O ! men who are altogether of this world ! — 
talk not to us of our mysteries, till ye have cleared up 
your own mysteries. A mind, insensible to all the 
highest interests of a mind— a mind, bereft of all the 
attributes of a thinking, inquiring, suffering, unsatis- 
fied being — what is it, I ask again? Is it matter, or 
spirit ?— Is it an earthly creature ? No ; for its 
thoughts stretch beyond the earth. Is it a heavenly 
being ? No, for it cares not for heaven. What is it 



DISCOURSE X. 



173 



then, and where is its place ? Where in the universe 
of things is its place ? 

Ah ! how surely is that out of its place, for which 
no position can be found, in the eye of reason, or of 
common sense, or even of imagination ! Let him who 
has wandered — whether in the ways of gain, or of 
philosophy, or of fashion, to the verge of that shadowy 
region, that shore of spectral illusions, that w T orld of 
spiritual death and mental chaos, where nothing is 
right, nor reasonable, nor sure, nor safe — let him start 
back, as from the gulf of annihilation, and return to 
the way of life. Let him turn back to the solid ground 
of faith, of reason, of wisdom. Let him enter upon 
the path that is bright with truth and virtue — the path 
that shineth brighter and brighter to the perfect day. 

15* 



174 



DISCOURSE XL 

ON INDIFFERENCE TO RELIGION, 



I.PETER 1. 17. And if ye caxl on the Father, who without 

RESPECT OF PERSONS JUDGETH ACCORDING TO EVERY MAN'S 
WORK, PASS THE TIME OF YOUR SOJOURNING HERE IN FEAR. 

I have spoken in my last discourse from these words 
of the practical apology for religious indifference ; the 
apology, that is to say, which a man finds in his own 
heart ; and which he expresses when he says, that 
" he does not need religion— that he is very well as 
he is now," I have appealed to life, to the love of 
happiness, to the desire for improvement — I have 
appealed to the mind, nay, and the senses, to say 
whether this can be so : and they have all answered 
and truly answered, as I think, that this grand practi- 
cal assumption of religious indifference is utterly mis- 
taken, untrue, unfounded in the nature of things, and 
of the mind, 

I shall now proceed to consider the theoretical de- 
fence of religious indifference ; the apology, that is to 
say, of a limited creed. Let us see then whether the 
most limited creed, still is not ample and solemn enough 
to overshadow with awe, the most negligent mind that 
takes shelter under it. 

If, says the apostle, " ye call on the Father/' Here 
is recognised the first article of almost universal be- 
lief ; that there is a God ! It is, indeed, the first artv* 



DISCOURSE XI. 



175 



cle of every creed, the foundation principle of every 
religion ; it is as we call it, the first truth and the 
plainest truth ; and we utter it in common words and 
tones such as we give to all other truth, till the dan- 
ger is, that all its sublimity and mysteriousness will be 
lost in its certainty, and familiarity, and constant re- 
petition. But what a truth is it, and what mind that 
thinks of it, can be indifferent. That there is a God, 
and w T ith such attributes — eternal, but existing in time ; 
infinite, but existing in space, all around us ; all-crea- 
ting, himself uncreated ; all-sustaining, himself inde- 
pendent ; all-seeing, himself invisible ; all-compre- 
hending, himself incomprehensible — whose mind, that 
thinks of it, is not lost, is not overwhelmed in this 
truth ? To acknowledge this, and not to be religious-, 
is an utter and almost inconceivable contradiction of 
ideas. It is a moral absurdity, which no language 
can express. It is like saying there is light, and not 
seeing it— there is danger, and not fearing it — there 
is sublimity, and not reverencing ; there is glory, and 
not admiring ; there is beauty, or loveliness, and not 
loving it. It is more ; for it is saying that there is a 
Being, to whom all these ideas belong, without mea- 
sure or end, and not entertaining any correspondent 
emotion, 

There is no thought which we can admit to our 
minds, concerning God, but it is a solemn thought. If 
he dwelt at an infinite distance from us : if his pre- 
sence never came near to us; if he never had any 
concern with us ; if the world had formed itself and 
us, by certain self-producing powers of its own ; if we 
and our humble sphere were too insignificant to be 
noticed; still that atheism in the thoughts, leaves to us the 



176 



DISCOURSE XI. 



conception of a Being, though distant, yet so wonderful, 
that the bare idea of him must strike us with awe, that 
the bare idea of him might be enough to arrest the most 
careless mind, and to fix it for ever in the profoundest 
admiration. But, suppose that the doctrine concerning 
that great Being, came nearer to us — suppose that God 
were the actual Maker of this world and our Maker, but 
had left all to itself, as some seem to imagine, and took no 
further account of the work of his hands : yet how much 
does even that supposition leave us to awaken a religious 
devoutness ? Even then we should have it to consider 
that we dwell where God has been! that we dwell 
amidst the tokens of a mighty presence passed away ! 
that every hill and mountain lifted up before us the 
dread monuments of departed omnipotence ! What 
a thought might that be, to strike the mind with the 
profoundest aw r e ! He who should wander amidst 
some silent city of the mighty dead, amidst broken 
columns, and falling temples, and feel no serious nor 
sublime emotion, w T ould not be guilty of such unpar- 
donable inconsistency or dulness, as the moral being 
who acknowledges in any sense, that there is a God, 
and feels no religious awe. 

But how solemn is the truth, — and what words shall 
declare it, — that this awful and glorious Being, is not 
in the infinite height, nor in the unfathomable depth 
only, nor in the immeasurable distance w T here thought 
and imagination have never wandered — but that God 
is here also! — here in all the majesty and glory, that 
fill the heavens with his splendours! "Oh! God!" 
should we not exclaim if we felt this—" God, who art 
present with us ! help our unbelief and indifference." 
Indifference! my brethren, — and the admission that 



DISCOURSE XI. 



177 



there is a God ! — what power of imagination can make 
such things to coexist — -to dwell together, in the same 
world, in the same soul ! And yet, alas ! they are found 
to meet in the experience of thousands. 

But I pass to another part of what may be consider- 
ed as the general belief. "If ye call upon the Father' 9 
— this implies the first part — "who without respect of 
persons, judgeth every man's work." Here is recog- 
nised the universal obligation of duty, and the certainty 
of retribution. 

Now duty, — to consider this in the first place — 
duty is, in its very nature, something that admits of no 
neutrality, and consequently, of no indifference. To 
whatever it applies, it imparts a peculiar character: it 
binds the most indifferent things with a bond, strong as 
the almighty will. But duty is, at the same time, a 
principle of boundless application. There is not a 
thought, nor a word, nor a deed, but duty has a rela- 
tion to it. There is no place of our abode but duty is 
there with its claims. No view is there which we can 
take of it, but is of very deep import. Its sanction is 
an infinite authority ; its residence is in the immortal 
part; its issues go forth to eternity. It is the dignity, 
and happiness, and perfection, of our nature. It is the 
end of our being. If it is failed of, — -what misery is 
the consequence ! And yet it is as easy to fail of 
it, as to take any of a thousand devious paths, rather 
than the only one that is right. 

There is no class of our duties that are so readily 
acknowledged as those w T hich are relative : those which 
we owe to one another. These are, indeed, first prkh 
ciples of the doctrine of Christ. But they are held 
also to be the first principles of reason. They are thq 



178 



DISCOURSE XI. 



faith and boast of unbelievers ! To be just, generous, 
and kind ; to have a benevolent regard to the best 
welfare of others; to be honest, disinterested and use- 
ful; these are obligations which it would be thought 
unnatural, unpardonable, to deny. To admit and prac- 
tise them, is thought to be the least that we can do. 
And yet, after all, how momentous an affair is it, 
rightly to discharge the very least of these universally 
acknowledged duties ! How rare is it, to see a perfect, 
or even a very high exemplification, of the faithful and 
friendly offices that men owe to one another ! How 
difficult is it, to preserve our conduct from offence, 
our lips from guile, our hearts from unworthy feelings ! 
How strait is the path even of honesty, of friendship, 
of natural affection ! Who does not deviate ? Who 
does not require a strict guard? The best, the kindest, 
the most faithful err, and have occasion to mourn over 
their folly, their carelessness, or their passion. 

And then, there are others for whom society mourns. 
How do all the relations of life bleed under one cruel 
infliction ! How easy is it to touch some point in the 
delicate system of social connections, that shall send 
contagion and suffering through the whole! How 
prevalent is evil ! How prolific, how diffusive is vice ! 

Or, to take a higher view of these relative duties; 
if we are bound to regard each other's welfare, then, 
surely, that which is the highest and the most perma- 
nent—the future, the eternal. And this view presents 
society before us, as one vast association, whose great 
concern is, to form its members to religious virtue, to 
piety, to the love of God, to the spirit of heaven. It 
teaches us that our greatest duty is to the soul; our 
most momentous influence is on the character, Now 



DISCOURSE XI. 



179 



it need not be said what fidelity, what circumspection, 
what care, what perfection of social life, ought to flow, 
from the simple acknowledgment of these most simple 
and unquestionable principles and duties. 

But our relation to futurity is not that merely of an 
influence exerted on others, but it is the more solemn 
relation of an influence, because it is a deeper influ- 
ence, exerted on ourselves. All is not to end here, 
indeed; but w r e believe moreover, that what is to go 
onward is retribution; that while the good have every 
thing to hope, the bad have every thing to fear ; that 
every man has enough to hope or to fear, to occupy 
many deep and weighty thoughts. We believe that our 
actions w T hen committed, are not for ever done with ; 
that the record of life as it passes, is sealed up for a 
future inspection; that these days of our mortal exist- 
ence, are to be subjected not merely to that partial 
review of conscience w r ith which we sometimes close 
them, but to the tribunal of that great Being who gave 
to conscience all its power. We expect the day when 
we shall stand before the judgment-seat ; when the 
book, — ah! how firmly closed against all inspection 
now ! — when the book of our experience will be open- 
ed, and we shall be judged out of it. How serious is 
that prospect ! Who can look to that future scene with 
indifference? Who, while the time of his sojourning 
here is hastening away, w T ill not pass it in wisdom, and 
sobriety, and godly fear? Oh! there is enough in the 
bare, the indefinite possibilities of a future account, to 
fill us with apprehension. Our experience tells us, that 
the retribution which aw T aits the sinful soul, cannot be 
a slight matter; it cannot be a slight matter now: it 
cannot now be pushed aside by the hand of indiffer- 



i 



ISO 



DISCOURSE XI. 



ence. But what shall be that great consummation of 
the work of conscience, its last infliction, its gnaw- 
ing worm and unquenchable fire, futurity, — the un- 
known, the awful futurity alone, can reveal ; but let us 
believe, that one word of revelation from that future 
world, would break up our indifference for ever. 

But our belief — i. e. the common belief — goes still 
farther. Each of us probably believes, not only that 
he has a rational nature, and not only, that this is 
bound by the obligation of duty and to the certainty of 
retribution; but that this soul is immortal; that there 
is within him an emanation from the Divinity — which 
has a being commensurate with that of the Divinity 
itself — which w r ill live while God exists. What an 
amazing connection is this, with the future ! What 
thoughts does it suggest for each one of us to meditate 
upon! "This soul within me" — may you say — "so 
familiar, so endeared to me by its earthly experience 
— my soul — myself, am to live for ever, and ever! 
Ages will crowd on ages, and yet I shall live. Un- 
bounded systems will revolve — the eternal fires that 
enlighten them may grow old and die away, and revive 
again, and kindle their light anew, — and yet the morn- 
ing of my endless being will hardly have broken around 
me ! Time shall be no longer; and duration shall pass 
all thought and measurement — yet when ten thousand 
boundless revolutions of ages are accomplished, and 
thousands and millions more are added to them, I shall 
live, and shall yet look forward to eternity ! O poor 
and vanishing life ! O ye toys of a summer's day, 
wealth, and fame, and pleasure ! — where are ye now?" 
And yet, brethren, I have seen a man who could be 
serious in gathering up this perishing dust ; yes, I have 



DISCOURSE XI. 



181 



seen him serious; and anxious with the fear of losses: 
but he thought it too much to be serious in religion ; 
too much to be anxious for his immortal being! Yes, 
I have see him meditate — I have seen him tremble — 
I have seen him labouring — labouring on, through life, 
with many and wearisome cares ; but he cannot medi- 
tate, he cannot tremble, he cannot labour for his soul ! 
His indifference to what is spiritual and immortal, can 
be equalled, I was about to say, by nothing: and yet 
there is one thing to equal it; and that is — his eager- 
ness for every passing phantom of this perishing world. 
His indifference, and all his indifference centres in the 
only point where his essential interest lies, where his 
essential being is treasured up — in his soul! — and he 
never saw the day — it is no fiction; it is reality, that 
I utter — he never saw the day, when he could think so 
much of his soul, when he could labour so much for 
it, as he can for the most trifling addition to his 
worldly gains ! 

But to escape the charge of an inconsistency so pal- 
pable, as that which is implied in the acknowledgment 
of any religious truth, and a total religious indifference, 
there may be some who are prepared to go farther 
than we have yet supposed. There maybe some who 
will say, "we believe nothing in regard to religion, 
and therefore we are bound to feel nothing, and to 
care nothing, about it." 

I am not sure but I have now presented a case, 
which makes indifference more shocking and mon- 
strous than any other that can be supposed. Let me 
state it to you, in terms. It is common, and it is thought, 
decorous, to repeat a creed, in a very deliberate and 
serious manner. He who says, "I believe in God, I 

16 



DISCOURSE XI. 



believe in Jesus Christ, I believe in the life everlasting," 
is expected to do it solemnly. But let us listen to the 
no-creed of the confirmed sceptic. Let a man take 
his stand beyond the boundaries of all religious truth; 
beyond the boundaries of light, where all is darkness 
before and around him; let him stand there, dimly 
seen, a cursing spirit, on the borders, to his view, of 
eternal night ; let him lift up his hand to those heavens, 
shining with ten thousand harmonious systems of 
worlds — and amidst the ten thousand voices of nature 
let him say, "I believe, in nothing — but in darkness, 
and desolation, and death ; — I believe in no God : I be- 
lieve in no Saviour; I believe in no hope hereafter: 
death is an eternal sleep; the Bible is a fiction: the 
adoration of a God, is but the dream of bigots and en- 
thusiasts P — let him say this ! — but can he say it with- 
out trembling — can he say it without pain, without re- 
gret, without one struggle to hold on, to the last part- 
ing hope of existence? If he can, yet let him know 
that no one can hear him without trembling ; and so 
awful a spectacle would it be, if a man should thus stand 
before us, that it would not be strange to us, if the voices 
of nature, if the mutterings of distant thunder should 
answer back, and speak in the name of that awful and 
omnipresent One, whose being he denies. 

But there may be some men, nay, there are men in 
this very community, reckless enough in their fearful 
consistency, and strong enough in their insane courage, 
to aver that they can say all this without horror or re- 
gret. If so, let us see what sort of men they are that 
can make this averment: let us make a discrimination 
here, for at this point it becomes necessary. There 
are, then, two kinds of unbelievers; the intellectual 
and refined, and the sensual and brutish unbeliever. 



DISCOURSE XI. 



183 



The intellectual and refined unbeliever is one, who 
has usually become such, from some peculiarity of mind, 
or misfortune of education, from some misapprehen- 
sions of revealed religion, or mystycism about nature, 
which prevent him, as I think, from feeling the force 
of plain evidence. The difficulty lies in his mind ; and 
it is a difficulty which he most sincerely regrets. He 
wishes he could believe. Perhaps he does believe, 
almost without knowing it. Perhaps he does believe 
more than he imagines. Perhaps he embraces almost 
every important truth of the Gospel, while he thinks 
himself obliged, by the laws of evidence, to reject its 
supernatural origin. But the point w 7 hich I am con- 
cerned, at present to insist upon, is this; that the in- 
tellectual and refined unbeliever always regrets his 
unbelief. He feels, beyond expression, the w r ants of 
an intellectual nature, and he sighs with every aspira- 
tion of a burdened soul — in silence and sadness and 
bitterness of heart — he sighs for relief. Now this man 
is not at ease with regard to religion. Indifference to 
the subject is the last thing of which to accuse him, 
He is as far from indifference perhaps, as the most 
faithful and devoted Christian. And I would beseech 
such an one, if I addressed any such, never to suffer 
himself carelessly to consider his state of mind, as an 
apology for religious negligence. His, is the last state 
of mind that can fairly furnish such an apology. He 
is bound by every rational consideration to be an 
anxious seeker of the truth, and of the true way. He 
is not, it is true, in a condition, most favourable to 
improvement; but he is in a condition that utterly 
and for ever, forbids all indifference. 

It is therefore the sensual unbeliever only that can 



184 



DISCOURSE XI. 



be indifferent, or that can pretend to have any reason 
for being so. And here it may seem, that we are stop 
ped and foreclosed altogether, from proceeding any 
farther, with argument or expostulation. But if it be 
so, let us stand a moment, and see if we can help stand- 
ing aghast, at the object that is presented before us. 
It is a being ; it is a moral being — we know it, if he 
does not — his every effort to defend himself, proves 
that he is moral; it is a moral being; it is a man. 
Look at him. He is a moral being and a man, and he 
declares — this is the supposition — God forbid that it 
should often be reality, but this is the supposition — he 
declares that he does not believe any thing religious to 
be true ; that he does not wish it to be true ; that he is 
persuaded that it is not true ; and that he cares nothing 
about it. He declares that he has no deep, intellec- 
tual wants, of which other men talk ; that he has no 
glorious aspirations which nothing but heaven can 
meet; that he has no high and generous affections 
which nothing but virtue can satisfy ; that all this about 
virtue and improvement, about hope and heaven, is a 
mistake, and a fancy, and a dream. He declares 
finally, that the senses are to him every thing; that he 
believes, (to use the words of an unsexed female lec- 
turer in some of our theatres)— that he believes in 
what he sees, and that is all he does believe in;— 
presumptuous and preposterous nonsense ! as if 
thoughts in the mind, ay, and wants in the mind, were 
not things as really existing, as the objects of vision: — 
and our sceptic declares, moreover, that he seeks for 
nothing,hopes for nothing, but the indulgences of sense, 
and that to wallow in sensual pleasures, all his life, 
md then die for ever, is all that he wants ! 



DISCOURSE XI. 



185 



Let no one start at this representation, and say that 
it is all hypothesis, and that nobody ever felt thus ; for 
if it be hypothesis — if no man ever felt this, then there 
is not a being in the world that can protect his reli- 
gious indifference, under even the flimsiest garb of 
reason. There is no defence for religious indifference, 
unless it be found in that utter, appalling, revolting, 
self-damning scepticism. But suppose that scepticism 
to exist ; that defence to be set up ; that case repre- 
sented, to be reality ; then, I say, in fine, what a reality 
is it for a man to sit down with, in indifference ! Gra- 
cious heavens ! for a man to declare himself a brute, 
and to make that a reason for being unconcerned ; to 
take refuge from the calls of religion among the herd 
of animals ; to deny himself the very attributes of hu- 
manity, that he, a human being, may be at ease in his 
sins, his irreligion, and spiritual lethargy — why, what 
is it but to make an argument that carries with it, its 
own strongest refutation? Truly such an argument for 
indifference ought to break it up for ever. The horror 
of having used it, — -though every other resort had failed 
* — the very horror of having used it, like the last warn- 
ing of death in the ear, should startle the self-indulgent 
sleeper from his repose, and never suffer him again to 
sink towards that fatal security ! 

But, my brethren — to add one word more, and more 
accordant with the situation of an assembly of pro- 
fessed believers— if the argument of scepticism is so 
fearful, surely the indifference of faith, is, if possible, 
yet more so. 

Not life with all its teachings, not the love of happi- 
ness, not even the belief in a God, in duty, in retribu- 
tion, in an immortal soul — no, nor the denial of all 

16* 



186 



DISCOURSE XI. 



these things, is so fearful, as it is, amidst the acknow- 
ledgment of such truths, to be unconcerned — to sleep 
amidst the calls of God and nature, of life and death, 
of time and eternity ! Even scepticism we have said 
has cause to be distressed, — to be overwhelmed with 
its gloomy doubts. But indifference, with faith, is a 
step beyond all — more rash, if possible, more heaven- 
defying than any other. There is a hope for it, indeed, 
which there is not for utter scepticism, but it is a hope 
amidst perils and threatenings. There is a salvation 
for it, which utter unbelief rejects ; but it must be sal- 
vation, if possible, from more aggravated sins. Yes, 
the light of truth is around this man, and the w T arning 
depths are beneath, but he sins on, and sleeps on — 
sleeps on, upon the very brink of destruction ! What 
shall save him ! What power shall interpose for his 
rescue? No hand of miracle will be stretched out to 
pluck him from that edge of peril and perdition. No 
power to save, stirs within him, while he thus sleeps in 
security. What then shall save him ? Consider it, I 
beseech you, if you be a negligent hearer; consider it, 
before it is too late. Surely indifference never saved 
any man: it has destroyed millions. Surely, every 
thing must be wrong in him, whom nothing will arouse, 
neither to righteousness, nor to the consciousness of 
wanting it, nor to the fear of consequences. The last 
hold upon such a man, while such, is lost ; and futurity 
must awaken hi??7 to condemnation, whom the present 
cannot awaken to repentance, to prayer, and to the 
care of his soul. 

But let me not, with such terms, close this medita- 
tion. Assailing religious indifference, in its strong holds, 
as I have to-day, I have felt, and too naturally felt ? 



DISCOURSE XI. 



187 



perhaps, that my words were to fall, not on the tender- 
ness of the human heart, but, as it were, on the scales 
of leviathan. But that tenderness — where is it not? 
— in what assembly is it not ? My friends, I know — 
of many of you at least — I know, that ye are not indif- 
ferent. Life is to you, that moving scene, which it is 
to every thoughtful and feeling mind. The Bible is to 
you, the book of your faith and trust. Blessed trust! 
touching experience ! and they are yours. No, ye are 
not indifferent. But then I beseech you, act not as if 
ye were so. Think it not enough to admit, to-day, that 
you ought to be interested in this great subject. Show 
that you are so, to-morrow, and every day. Let it ap- 
pear, I entreat you, that ye are men, who believe in 
your Bibles. Let your life give testimony to the 
great principle which should guide you. In all 
things show your fidelity to it. In business, be con- 
scientious; in pleasure temperate; in suffering patient; 
in prosperity, thankful ; in all things, religious. If ye 
call on the Father: if here, in the holy sanctuary, and 
if in the silence of your own dwellings, ye call on the 
Father, who without respect of persons, judge th accord- 
ing to every man's work, pass the time of your sojourn- 
ing here, in fear, in wisdom, in acts of piety, in works 
of righteousness. 



188 



DISCOURSE XII. 

THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 



GALATIANS 6. 7. Ee hot deceived; God is up? 

MOCKED : FOR WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWETH. THAT SHALL 
HE ALSO REAP. 

I understand these words, my brethren, as laying 
down in some respects a stricter law of retribution, 
than is yet received even by those who are considered 
as its strictest interpreters. There is much dispute 
about this law at the present day ; and there are 
many who are jealous, and very properly jealous, of 
every encroachment upon its salutary principles. But 
even those who profess to hold the strictest faith on 
this subject, and who. in my judgment, do hold a faith 
concerning what they call the infinity of man's ill- 
desert, that is warranted neither by reason nor scrip- 
ture, — even they, nevertheless, do often present views 
of conversion and of God's mercy, and of the actual 
scene of retribution, which, in my apprehension detract 
from the wholesome severity of the rule by which we 
are to be judged. Their views may be strong enough, 
too strong : and yet not strict enough, nor impressive 
enough. Tell a man that he deserves to suffer in- 
finitely, and I am not sure, that it will, by any means 
come so near his conscience, as to tell him that he 



DISCOURSE XII. 



189 



deserves to endure some small, but specific evil. Tell 
him that he deserves an infinity of suffering, and he 
may blindly assent to it ; it is a vast and vague some- 
thing that presses upon his conscience, and has no 
edge nor point : but, put a sword into the hand of con- 
science, and how might this easy assenter to the jus- 
tice of infinite torments, grow astonished and angry, 
if you were to tell him that he deserved to suffer but 
the amputation of a single finger ! Or, tell the sinner 
that he shall suffer for his offences a thousand ages 
hence, and though it may be true, and will be true, if 
he goes on offending till that period, yet it will not 
come home to his heart with half so vivid an impres- 
sion, or half so effectual a restraint, as to make him 
foresee the pain, the remorse, and shame, that he will 
suffer the very next hour. Tell him, in fine, as it is 
common to do — tell him of retribution in the gross, 
and however strong the language, he may listen to it 
with apathy ; he often does so ; but if you could show 
him what sin is doing within him, at every moment ; 
how every successive offence lays on, another and 
another shade upon the brightness of the soul : how* 
every transgression, as if it held the very sword of jus- 
tice, is cutting off* one bv one. the fine and invisible 
fibres that bind the soul to happiness ; and then, by 
all the love of happiness such a man must be inter- 
ested, and concerned for himself. Or, tell the bad 
man that he must be converted, or he cannot be happy 
hereafter, and you declare to him an impressive truth; 
but how much would it add to the impression, if in- 
stead of leaving him to suppose that bare conversion — * 
in the popular sense of that term — that the brief work 
of an hour 3 would bring him to heaven, you should say 



190 



DISCOURSE XII. 



to him, "you shall be just as happy hereafter, as you 
are pure and upright, and no more ; you shall be just 
as happy as your character prepares you to be, and 
no more ; your moral, like your mental character, 
though it may take its date or its impulse from a cer- 
tain moment, is not formed in a moment ; your cha- 
racter, that is to say, the habit of your mind, is the re- 
sult of many thoughts, and feelings, and efforts, and 
these are bound together by many natural and strong 
ties, so that it is strictly true, and this is the great law 
of retribution : that all coming experience is to be 
affected by every present feeling ; that every future 
moment of being must answer for every present mo- 
ment ; that one moment, sacrificed to sin or lost to im- 
provement, is for ever sacrificed and lost ; that one 
year's delay, or one hour's wilful delay, to enter the 
right path is to put you back so far, in the everlasting 
pursuit of happiness ; and that every sin — ay, every 
sin of a good man, is thus to be answered for, though 
not according to the full measure of its ill-desert, yet 
according to a rule of unbending rectitude and impar- 
tiality. This is undoubtedly the strict and solemn Law 
of Retribution : but how much its strictness has really 
entered — I say not now into our hearts and lives ; 
I will take up that serious question in another season 
of meditation — but how much the strictness of the 
principle of retribution has entered into our theories, 
our creeds, our speculations, is a matter that deserves 
attention. 

It is worthy of remark, indeed, that there is no doc- 
trine which is more universally received, and at the 
same time, more universally evaded, than this very 
doctrine which we are considering. It is universally 



DISCOURSE XII. 



191 



received because the very condition of human exist 
ence involves it — because it is a matter of experience; 
every after period of life being affected, and known to 
be affected, by the conduct of every earlier period ; 
manhood by youth, and age by manhood ; professional 
success, by the preparation for it ; domestic happiness, 
by conjugal fidelity and parental care. It is thus seen, 
that life is a tissue, into which the thread of this con- 
nection is every where interwoven. It is thus seen 
that the law of retribution presses upon every man, 
whether he thinks of it or not ; that it pursues him 
through all the courses of life, with a step that never 
falters nor tires, and with an eye that never sleeps nor 
slumbers. The doctrine of a future retribution has 
been universally received, too, because it has been felt 
that in no other way, could the impartiality of God's 
government be vindicated ; that if the best and the 
worst men in the world, if the ruthless oppressor and 
his innocent victim, if the proud and boasting injurer, 
and the meek and patient sufferer, are to go to the 
same reward, to the same approbation of the good 
and just God ; there is an end of all discrimination, of 
all moral government, and of all light upon the myste- 
ries of providence. It has been felt, moreover, that 
character carries with it, and in its most intimate na* 
ture, the principles of retribution, and that it must 
work out weal or wo for its possessor. 

But this doctrine so universally received, has been, 
I say, as universally evaded. The classic mythologies 
of paganism did, indeed, teach that there were infernal 
regions ; but few were doomed to them, and for those 
few, who, failing of the rites of sepulture, or of some 
other ceremonial qualification, were liable to that 



192 



DISCOURSE XII. 



doom, an escape was provided by their wandering on 
the banks of the Styx awhile, as preparatory to their 
entering Elysium. So, too, the creed of the Catho- 
lics, though it spoke of hell, had, also, its purgatory to 
soften the horrors of retribution. And now there are, 
as I think, among the body of Protestants, certain 
speculative, or rather, may I say, mechanical views 
of the future state, and of the preparation for it, and 
of the principles of mercy in its allotments, that tend 
to let down the strictness of that law, which for ever 
binds us to the retributive future. 

Is it not a question, let me barely ask in passing, 
whether this universal evasion does not show that the 
universal belief has been extravagant ; whether men 
have not believed too much, to believe it strictly and 
specifically to its minutest point ? It certainly is a 
very striking fact, that while the popular creed teaches 
that almost the whole living . world is going down to 
everlasting torments, the popular sympathy interposes 
to save from that doom, almost the whole dying world. 

But not to dwell on this observation, — I shall pro- 
ceed now briefly to consider some of those modern 
views, which detract from the strictness of the law of 
retribution. 

I. And the first which I shall notice is the view of 
the actual scene of retribution, as consisting of two 
conditions, entirely opposite, and altogether different. 
Mankind according to this view are divided into two 
distinct classes, the one of which is to enjoy infinite 
happiness, and the other to suffer infinite misery. Il 
is a far stronger case, than would be made by the 
supposition, that man's varied efforts to gain worldlj 
good, were to be rewarded by assigning to one por 



DISCOURSE XII. 



193 



tion of the race, boundless wealth, and to the other, 
absolute poverty ; for it is infinite happiness on the 
one hand, and, not the bare destitution of it, but infinite 
misery, on the other. 

Let me observe, before I proceed farther to point 
out what. I consider to be the defect which attends 
this popular view of retribution, that the view r itself is 
not warranted by scripture. The Bible teaches us that 
virtue will be rewarded and sin punished ; that the 
good shall receive good, and the evil shall receive 
evil ; and that is all that it teaches us. It unfolds to 
us this simple, and solemn, and purely spiritual issue, 
and nothing more. 

All else is figurative ; and so the most learned in- 
terpreters have generally agreed to consider it. It is 
obvious, that representations of what passes in the 
future world, taken from the present world, must be 
of this character. When heaven is represented as a 
city, and hell as a deep abyss, and Christ is described 
as coming to judgment on a throne, w r ith the state and 
splendour of an Oriental monarch, and separating, f?i 
form and visibly separating the righteous from the 
w T icked, w T e know, or should know, that these repre- 
sentations are figurative descriptions of a single and 
simple fact ; and this fact is, and this is the whole of 
the fact that is taught us, that a distinction will be 
made between good men and bad men ; and that they 
w r ill be rewarded or punished hereafter, according to 
the character they have formed and sustained here. 

It is to be remembered, too, in appealing to the 
Scriptures, that there are other teachings in them than 
those which are figurative, and teachings which bind us 
far more to the letter. It is written, that whatsoever 

17 



194 



DISCOURSE XII. 



a man soweth, that shall he also reap ; and that God 
will render unto every man according to his deeds — 
i. e. according to his character, as by deeds is doubt- 
less meant in this instance. 

But now to return to the view already stated, I main- 
tain, that the boundless distinction which it makes in 
the states of the future life, is not rendering unto men 
according to their deeds ; that is to say, according to 
their character. Because, of this character, there are 
many diversities, and degrees, and shades. Men differ 
in virtue, precisely as they differ in intelligence ; by just 
as many, and imperceptible degrees. As many as are 
the diversities of moral education in the World, as nu- 
merous as are the shades of circumstance in life, as va- 
rious as are the degrees of moral capacity and effort, in 
various minds, so must the results differ. If character 
were formed by machinery, there might be but two 
samples. But if it is formed by voluntary agency, the 
results must be as diversified and complicated as the 
operations of that agency. And the fact, which every 
man's observation must show him, undoubtedly is, that 
virtue in men differs just as intelligence does; differs, 
I repeat, by just as many and imperceptible degrees. 
But now suppose that men were to be rewarded for 
their intelligence hereafter. Would all the immense 
variety of cases be met by two totally different and 
opposite allotments ? Take the scale of character, and 
mark on it, all the degrees of difference, and all the 
divisions of a degree. Now what point on the scale 
will you select, at which to make the infinite difference 
of allotments? Select it where you will, and there will 
be the thousandth part of a degree above, rewarded 
with perfect happiness, and a thousandth part of a de- 



DISCOURSE XII. 



195 



gree below, doomed to perfect misery. Would this 
be right, with regard to the intelligence, or virtue oi 
men? 

We are misled on this subject by that loose and in- 
accurate division of mankind, which is common, into 
the two classes of saints and sinners. We might as 
well say that all men are either strong or weak, wise 
or foolish, intellectual or sensual. So they are, in a 
general sense; but not in a sense, that excludes all dis- 
crimination. And the language of the Bible when it 
speaks of the good and bad, of the righteous and 
wicked, is to be understood with the same reasonable 
discrimination; with the same reasonable qualification 
of its meaning, as when it speaks of the rich and poor. 
The truth is, the matter of fact is, that from the highest 
point of virtue, to the lowest point of wickedness, there 
are, I repeat, innumerable steps, and men are standing 
upon all these steps; they are actually found in all 
these gradations of character. Now to render to such 
beings according to their character, is not to appoint 
to them two totally distinct and opposite allotments, 
but just as many allotments as there are shades of 
moral difference between them. 

But does not the Bible speak of two distinct classes 
of men as amenable to the judgment, and of but two; 
and does it not say of the one class, "these shall go 
away into everlasting fire," and of the other, "but the 
righteous into life eternal?" Certainly it does. And 
so do we constantly say, that the good shall be happy, 
and the bad shall be miserable in the coming world. 
But do we, or does the Bible intend to speak without 
any discrimination? Especially, can the omniscient 
scrutiny and the unerring rule be supposed to overlook 



196 



DISCOURSE XII. 



any, even the slightest differences and the most deli- 
cate shades of character? On the contrary, we are 
told that "one star, differeth from another in glory;" 
and we are told that there is a "lowest hell:" and we 
are led to admit that in the allotments of retribu- 
tive justice, the best among bad men, and the worst 
among good men, may come as near to each other in 
condition, as they come in character. 

I am not saying, let it be observed, that the differ- 
ence even in this case, is unimportant ; still less that it 
is so, in general. Nay, and the difference between the 
states of the very good man and of the very bad man, 
may indeed be as great as any theory supposes ; it 
may be much greater, in fact, than any man's imagina- 
tion conceives; but this is not the only difference that 
is to be brought into the final account ; for there are 
many intermediate ranks between the best and the 
worst. I say, that the difference of allotment may — 
nay, and that it must be great. The truly good man, 
the devoted Christian, shall doubtless experience a 
happiness beyond his utmost expectation. The bad 
man, the self-indulgent, the self-ruined man, will doubt- 
less find his doom severer than he had looked for. I 
say not what it may be. But this, at least, we may be 
sure of, that the consequences both of good and bad 
conduct, will be more serious, will strike deeper, than 
w r e are likely, amidst the gross and dim perceptions 
of sense, to comprehend. 

But this is not the point which I am at present 
arguing. It is not the extent of the consequences; 
but it is the strict and discriminating impartiality 
which shall measure out those affecting results: it is 
the strict law T by which every man shall reap the fruits 



DISCOURSE XII. 



197 



of that which he sows. And I say that the artificial, 
imaginative, and, as I think, unauthorized, ideas which 
prevail with regard to a future life, let down the 
strictness of the law r . 

Let me now illustrate this by a single supposition. 
Suppose that you were to live in this world, one thou- 
sand or ten thousand years; and suppose, too, that you 
felt that every present moment was a probation for 
every future moment ; and that in order to be happy, 
you must be pure ; that every fault, every wrong habit 
of life or feeling, w T ould tend, and would continue, to 
make you unhappy, till it was faithfully and effectually 
corrected; and corrected by yourself — not by the 
hand of death, not by the exchange of worlds. Sup- 
pose yourself to entertain the conviction, that if you 
plunged into self-indulgence and sin, diseases and dis- 
tempers and woes w r ould accumulate upon you — with 
no friendly interposition or rescue, no all-healing nos- 
trum, no medicine of sovereign and miraculous efficacy 
to save — that diseases, I say, and distempers and woes 
w T ould accumulate upon you, in dark and darkening 
forms, for a thousand years. Suppose that every evil 
passion, anger, or avarice, or envy, or selfishness in 
any of its forms, would— unless resisted and overcome, 
— would make you more and more miserable, for a 
thousand years. I say, that such a prospect limited 
as it is in comparison, would be more impressive and 
salutary, a more powerful restraint upon sin, a more 
powerful stimulus to improvement, than the prospect, 
as it is usually contemplated, of the retributions of 
eternity! Are we then making all that we ought to 
make, of the prospect of an eternal retribution? God's 
justice will be as strict there, as it is here. And 

17* 



198 



DISCOURSE XII. 



although bodily diseases may not accumulate upon us 
there, yet the diseases of the soul, if we take not heed 
to them, will accumulate upon us; and he who has 
only one degree of purity, and ten degrees of sin in 
him, must not lay that flattering unction to his soul, that 
death will "wash out the long arrears of guilt." I know 
that this is a doctrine of unbending strictness — a doc- 
trine, I had almost said, insufferably strict; but I be- 
lieve that it is altogether true. 

"But," some one may say, "if I am converted; if I 
have repented of my sins, and believed on the Lord 
Jesus Christ, then, I have the assurance, through God's 
mercy, of pardon and heaven." 

This statement embraces the other doctrinal evasion 
of the law of retribution which I proposed to consider. 
And I must venture to express the apprehension that, 
by those who answer thus to the strict and unaccom- 
modating demand of inwrought purity, neither conver- 
sion, nor repentance, nor the mercy of God, are 
understood as they ought to be. 

A man says, "I am not to be judged by the law, but 
by the Gospel." But when he says that, let me tell 
him, he should take care to know what he says and 
whereof he affirms. The difference between the Law 
and the Gospel, I believe, is much misapprehended 
in this respect. The Gospel is not a more easy, not a 
more lax rule to walk by, but only a more encourag- 
ing rule. The Law demands rectitude, and declares 
that the sinner deserves the miseries of a future life ; 
and there it stops, and of course it leaves the offender 
in despair. The Gospel comes in — and it did come 
in, with its teaching and prophetic sacrifices, even 
amidst the thunders of Sinai — saying, If thou wilt re- 



DISCOURSE XII. 



199 



pent and believe, if thou wilt embrace the faith and 
spirit of the all-humbling and all- redeeming religion, 
the way to happiness is still open. But does the Gos- 
pel do any more than open the way? Does it make the 
way more easy, more indulgent, less self-denying? 
Does it say, you need not be as good as the Law re- 
quires, and yet you shall be none the less happy for 
all that? Does it say, You need not do as well, and 
yet it shall be just as well with you? "Is Christ the 
minister of sin? God forbid!" Nay, be it remembered 
that the solemn declaration upon which we are this 
day meditating — whatsoever a man soweth that shall 
he also reap — is recorded not in the law, but in the 
Gospel. 

" But if I repent," it may be said, " am I not for- 
given entirely ?" If you repent entirely, you are for- 
given entirely ; and not otherwise. What is repent- 
ance ? It is a change of mind. That, as every 
scholar knows, is the precise meaning of the original 
word in the scriptures, which is translated repentance. 
It is a change of mind. If, then, your repentance, 
your change of mind, is entire, your forgiveness, your 
happiness is complete ; but on no other principle* and 
in no other proportion. Sorrow, is only one of the 
indications of this repentance, or change of heart ; 
though it has, unfortunately, usurped, in common use, 
the whole meaning of the word. Sorrow is not the 
only indication of repentance ; for joy as truly springs 
from it. It is not therefore the bare fact, that you 
are sorry, however sincerely and disinterestedly sorry, 
for your offences, that will deliver you from all the 
suffering which your sins and sinful habits must occa- 
sion. You may be sorry, for instance, and truly sorry, 



200 



DISCOURSE XII. 



for your anger ; yet if the passion breaks out again, it 
must again give you pain ; and it must for ever give 
you pain, while it lives. You may grieve for your 
vices. Does that grief instantly stop the course of 
penalty? Will it instantly repair a shattered constitu- 
tion ? You may regret, in declining life, a state of 
mind produced by too much devotion to worldy gain 
— the want of intellectual and moral resources and 
habits. Will the dearth and the desolation depart 
from your mind, when that regret enters it ? Will 
even the tears of repentance immediately cause fresh- 
ness and verdure to spring up in your path ? 

" But," it may be said, once more, a does not all 
depend on our being converted, or being born again ? 
And is not conversion, is not the new birth, the event 
of a moment ?" 

I answer with all the certainty of conviction that I 
am capable of — no ; it is not the event of a moment. 
That conversion which fits a soul for heaven is not the 
event of a moment. And, my brethren, I would not 
answer thus in a case, where there is controversy, if 1 
did not think it a matter of the most serious import- 
ance. Can any thing be more fatal — can any one of 
all loose doctrines be more loose, than to tell an 
offender who is going to the worst excesses in sin, 
that he may escape all the evil results — all the results 
of fifty, sixty, seventy years of self-indulgence — by 
one instant's experience ? Can any one of us believe— 
dare w r e believe, that one moment's virtue can pre- 
pare us for the happiness of eternity ? Can we believe 
this, especially, when we are, on every page of the 
Bible, commanded to watch, and pray, and strive, 
and labour, and by patient continuance in well-doings 



DISCOURSE XII. 



201 



to seek for glory, and honour, and immortality ; and 
this, as the express condition of obtaining eternal life 
or happiness ? 

No, Christians ! subjects of the Christian law ! — no 
conversion, no repentance, no mercy of heaven, will 
save you from the final operation of that sentence, or 
should save you from its warning now — " Be not de- 
ceived" — as if there was special danger of being de- 
ceived here — " be not deceived : God is not mocked : 
for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap : 
he that soweth to the flesh, shall of his flesh reap cor- 
ruption ; but he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the 
spirit reap life everlasting." 

It is a high, and strict — I had almost said — a terri- 
ble discrimination. Yet let us bring it home to our 
hearts ; although it be as a sword to cut off some 
cherished sin. Oh ! this miserable and slavish folly of 
inquiring whether we have enough piety and virtue 
to save us ! Do men ever talk thus about the acqui- 
sition of riches or honours ? Do they act, as if all their 
solicitude was to ascertain and to stop at, the point 
that would just save them from want, or secure them 
from disgrace ? " Enough virtue to save you" — do you 
say ? The very question shows that you have not 
enough. It shows that your views of salvation are 
yet technical, and narrow — if not selfish. It shows 
that all your thoughts of retribution yet turn to solici- 
tude and apprehension. 

The law of retribution is the law of God's goodness. 
It addresses not only the fear of sin, but the love of 
improvement. Its grand requisition is that of pro- 
gress. It urges us at every step to press forward. 
And however many steps we may have taken, it urges 



202 



DISCOURSE XII. 



us still to take another and another, by the same 
pressing reason with which it urged us to take the 
first step. 

Yes, by the same pressing reason. Let him who 
thinks himself a good man, who thinks that he is 
converted, and is on the right side, and in the safe 
state, and in the way to heaven, and who, never- 
theless, from this false reasoning and this presumptu- 
ous security, indulges in little sins — irritability, covet- 
ousness, or worldly pride — let him know that his 
doom shall be hereafter, and is now, a kind of hell, 
compared with the blessedness in store for loftier vir- 
tue, and holier piety ; and let him know T , too, that 
compared with that loftier standard, he has almost as 
much reason to tremble for himself, as the poor sinner 
he looks down upon. For if w r oes are denounced 
against the impenitent sinner, so are woes denounced, 
in terms scarcely less awful, against the secure, luke- 
warm, negligent Christian. God is no respecter of 
persons, nor of professions. It is written that " he will 
render to every man, according to his deeds." It is 
written, too, that " whatsoever a man soweth, that 
shall he also reap.*' 

I repeat that language of fearful discrimination, 
" whatsoever — a man soweth — that — not something 
else — that — shall he also reap" That which you are 
doing — be it good or evil, be it grave or gay — that 
which you are doing to-day and to-morrow, — each 
thought, each feeling, each action, each event ; every 
passing hour, every breathing moment, is contributing 
to form the character bv which vou are to be iudged. 
Every particle of influence that goes to form that ag- 
gregate, your character, shall, in that future scrutiny, 



DISCOURSE XII. 



203 



be sifted out from the mass, and shall fall, particle by 
particle, with ages perhaps intervening — shall fall, a 
distinct contribution to the sum of your joys or your 
woes. Thus every idle word, every idle hour, shall 
give answer in the judgment. Think not. against the 
closeness and severity of this inquisition, to put up 
any barrier of theological speculation. Conversion, 
repentance, pardon, mean they what they will, mean 
nothing that will save you from reaping, down to the 
very root and ground of good or evil, that which you 
have sowed. Think not to wrap that future world in 
any blackness of darkness, or any folding flame, as if, 
for the imagination to be alarmed, were all you had 
to feel, or fear. Clearly, distinctly shall the voice of 
accusation fall upon the guilty ear; as when upon 
earth, the man of crime comes reluctantly forth from 
his hiding-place, and stands at the bar of his country's 
justice, and the voices of his associates say, " thou 
didst it!" If there be any unchangeable, any adaman- 
tine fate in the universe, this is that fate — that the fu- 
ture shall for ever bring forth the fruits of the past. 

Take care, then, what thou so west, as if thou wert 
taking care for eternity. That sowing, of which the 
scripture speaketh, what is it ? Yesterday, perhaps, 
some evil temptation came upon you — the opportunity 
of unrighteous gain, or of unhallowed indulgence, 
came, either in the sphere of business, or of pleasure, 
of society, or of solitude. If you yielded to it, then 
and there, did you plant a seed of bitterness and sor- 
row. To-morrow, it may be, will threaten discovery ; 
and agitated, alarmed, you will cover the sin, and 
bury it deeper, in falsehood and hypocrisy. In the 
hiding bosom, in the fruitful soil of kindred vices, that 



204 



DISCOURSE XII. 



sin dies not, but thrives and grows : and other, and 
still other germs of evil gather around the accursed 
root, till from that single seed of corruption, there 
springs up in the soul all that is horrible in habitual 
lying, knavery, or vice. Long before such a life comes 
to its close, its poor victim may have advanced within 
the very precincts of hell. Yes, the hell of debt, o\ 
disease, of ignominy, or of remorse, may gather its 
shadows around the steps of the transgressor even on 
earth ; and yet these, — if holy scripture be unerring, 
and sure experience be prophetic — these are but the 
beginnings of sorrows. The evil deed may be done 
alas ! in a moment — in one fatal moment ; but con- 
science never dies ; memory never sleeps : guilt never 
can become innocence ; and remorse can never, never 
whisper peace. Pardon may come from heaven ; but 
self-forgiveness may never come. 

Beware then, thou who art tempted to evil — and 
every being before me is tempted to evil — beware 
what thou layest up for the future ; beware what thou 
layest up in the archives of eternity. Thou who 
wouldst wrong thy neighbour, beware ! lest the 
thought of that injured man, wounded and suffering 
from thine injury, be a pang which a thousand years 
may not deprive of its bitterness. Thou who wouldst 
break into the house of innocence, and rifle it of its 
treasure, beware ! lest, when a thousand ages have 
rolled their billows over thee, the moan of its distress 
may not have died away from thine ear. Thou who 
wouldst build the desolate throne of ambition in thy 
heart, beware what thou art doing w 7 ith all thy devices, 
and circumventings, and selfish schemings ! lest deso- 
lation and loneliness be on thy path as it stretches into 



DISCOUFSE XII. 



205 



the long futurity. Thou, in fine, who art living a 
negligent and irreligious life, beware ! beware how 
thou livest — for bound up with that life is the immuta- 
ble principle of an endless retribution — bound up with 
that life are elements of God's creating, which shall 
never spend their force^ — which shall be unfolding 
and unfolding with the ages of eternity. Beware ! I 
say once more, and be not deceived. Be not deceived ; 
God is not mocked ; God who has formed thy nature 
thus to answer to the future, is not mocked ; his law 
can never be abrogated, his justice can never be 
eluded ; beware, then — be forewarned ; since, for 
ever, and for ever will it be true, that whatsoever a 
man soweth, that shall he also reap ! 



18 



206 



DISCOURSE XIII. 

THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 



GALATIANS 6. 7. Be not deceived ; God is not mocked; 

FOR WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWETH, THAT SHALL HE ALSO 

REAP. 

The views which are usually presented of a future 
retribution, are characterized, as 1 have observed in 
my last discourse, rather by strength than by strictness 
of representation. The great evil attending the corn 
mon statements of this doctrine, I shall now venture 
to say, is, not that they are too alarming. Men are 
not enough alarmed at the dangers of a sinful course. 
No men are ; no men, though they sit under the most 
terrifying dispensation of preaching that ever was de- 
vised. But the evil is, that alarm is addressed too 
much to the imagination, and too little to the reason 
and conscience. Neither Whitfield, nor Baxter, nor 
Edwards, — though the horror produced by his cele- 
brated sermon "on the justice of God in the damnation 
of sinners," is a matter of tradition in New England, to 
this very day — yet, no one of them ever preached too 
much terror, though they may have preached it too 
exclusively; but the evil was that they preached ter- 
ror, I repeat, too much to the imagination, and too 
little to the reason and conscience. Of mere fright, 
there may be too much; but of real rational fear, there 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



207 



never can be too much. Sin, vice, a corrupt mind, a 
guilty life, and the woes naturally flowing from these, 
never can be too much dreaded. It is one thing, for 
the preacher to deal in mathematical calculations of 
infinite suffering, to dwell upon the eternity of hell- 
torments, to speak of literal fires, and of burning in 
them for ever; and with these representations, it is 
easy to scare the imagination, to awaken horror, and a 
horror so great, as to be at war with the clear, calm, and 
faithful discriminations of conscience. With such 
means, it is easy to produce a great excitement in the 
mind. But he who should, or who could, unveil the re- 
alities of a strict and spiritual retribution, show what 
every sinner loses^ show what every sinner must suffer, 
in and through the very character he forms, show, too, 
how bitterly every good man must sorrow for every 
sin, here or hereafter, show, in fine, what sin is, and 
for ever must be, to an immortal nature, would make 
an impression more deep, and sober, and effectual. 

It is not my purpose at present to attempt any de- 
tail of this nature, though I shall be governed by the 
observations I have made, in the views which I am to 
present, and for which I venture to ask a rational, and 
calm, and most serious consideration. 

The future is to answer for the present. This is the 
great law of retribution. And so obviously necessary 
and just is it; so evidently does our character create 
our welfare or wo ; so certainly must it give us 
pain or pleasure, as long as it goes with us, whether in 
this world or another world, that it seems less requi- 
site to support the doctrine by argument, than to save 
it from evasions. 

There are such evasions. No theology has yet come 



208 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



up to the strictness of this law. It is still more true, 
that no practice has yet come up to it. There are 
theoretical evasions, — and 1 think they are to be found 
in the views which are often presented, of conversion, 
and repentance, and of God's mercy, and the actual 
scenes of retribution; but there is one practical evasion, 
one into which the whole world has fallen, and so dan- 
gerous, so momentous in its danger, that it may well 
deserve, for one season of meditation, I believe, to 
engross our entire and undivided attention. 

This grand evasion, this great and fatal mistake, 
may be stated in general terms to be, the substitution 
of something as a preparation for future happiness, in 
place of devoting the whole life to it; or to a course 
which is fitted to procure it. This evasion takes the 
particular form, perhaps, of an expectation that some 
sudden and extraordinary experience may, at a future 
time, accomplish what is necessary to prepare the mind 
for happiness and heaven; or that certain circum- 
stances, such as sickness and affliction, may, at some 
subsequent period of life, force the growth of that, 
which is not cultivated now, and may thus remedy the 
fearful and fatal neglect; or it is an expectation — and 
this is the most prevalent form of the error, — that old 
age or death, when it comes, will have power to pene- 
trate the heart with emotion, and subdue it to repent- 
ance, and prepare it for heaven. The subject — yet, 
it must be feared to be the victim— of this stupendous 
error, is convinced that in order to be happy eventu- 
ally, he must become pure there is no principle of 
indulgence, there is no gospel of mercy, that can ab- 
solve him from that necessity — he must become pure \ 
he must be pious : his nature must be exalted and re- 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



209 



fined. It is his nature, his mind, that is to be happy, and 
he is convinced by experience, that his mind must be 
cultivated, purified, prepared, for that end. But he is 
not doing this work to-day, nor does he expect to do it 
to-morrow; he is not doing it this month, nor does he 
expect to do it next month ; he is not doing it this year, 
nor does he, in particular, expect to do it next year ; 
and thus, month after month, and year after year are 
passing, and one season of life after another is stealing 
away: and the only hope is, that in some tremendous 
exigency, or by some violent paroxysm, when fear and 
remorse and disease and death, are darkly struggling 
together, that may be done, for which the whole pre- 
vious course of life has not been found sufficient. 

But is it true — for I am willing to pause at this 
point, and deliberately to consider the question — is it 
true, can it be true, some one may ask, that a mistake 
so gross, so irrational, so at war with all that we know 
about character, about its formation, and its necessary 
results — can it be true, that such a mistake, about the 
whole vast concern of our happiness, is actually made 
by any of us? Can it be, you will say, that men, w T ith 
reason, and experience, and Scripture to guide them; 
can it be that men, in their senses, are substituting in 
place of that deliberate formation of their character 
for happiness, for which life is given, some brief pre- 
paration for it, at a rature period, and especially at the 
last period of their lives? 

I am persuaded that it is true, my brethren, how- 
ever strange ; and these are the considerations that 
convince me of it. 

In the first place there are multitudes around us, 
that hope and expect to be happy hereafter, who are 

18* 



210 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



conscious, that they are not preparing for it ; who ac- 
knowledge at every successive stage of life, that if 
they were instantly to die, without any further oppor- 
tunity to prepare for it, there would be little or no 
hope for them ; who feel that, if the very character 
which they are now, every day, forming, were to go to 
the judgment, their case would be desperate ; who hope 
therefore, most evidently, not to be judged by the pre- 
vailing tenor of their lives, but secretly expect to do 
something at last, to retrieve the errors, the follies, and 
sins, which they are now daily committing. 

Again ; although it is a common impression, that but 
few live in an habitual preparation for heaven, the 
impression is almost as common, that but few actually 
die unprepared. Of almost every individual, who 
leaves the world, something is told, which encourages 
the hopes of survivers concerning him. I stand before 
you, my brethren, as a Christian minister, and I 
solemnly declare, that familiar as I have been with 
that sad and mournful scene, the death of the wicked, 
it has almost invariably left this strange and delusive 
hope behind it. Indeed, the extreme solicitude with 
which every symptom of preparation is marked in these 
circumstances, the trembling anxiety with which every 
word and look, is caught, but too plainly indicate the 
same impression. What the amount of this proof is, we 
will presently consider. It is sufficient at this point of 
the inquiry, to state, that it is collected and arranged as 
carefully, and offered as confidently, as if it were 
material; that it encourages those who repeat and 
those who hear it ; that the instance of death is very 
rare, in which surviving friends do not tell you that they 
trust and believe that all is welL Even when a man 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



211 



has led an eminently pious life, many are apt to feel 
as if the proof of his piety, was not consummated, 
unless he had died ajiappy and triumphant death: as 
though it were to be expected — it may happen so, in- 
deed, and we have great cause to thank God when it 
does— but as though it w r ere to be expected, and 
looked for as a matter of course, that in feebleness and 
distress of body and mind, and the sinking of all the 
faculties, the mind should exhibit its utmost energy — 
as if, amidst the cold damps of death, the expiring 
flame of sensibility should rise the highest. It is to be 
feared that good men and with the best intentions, no 
doubt, have yet given great distress to many faithful 
Christians, and done great injury to others, by coun- 
tenancing this unreasonable notion. The great ques- 
tion is, not how a good man dies, but how he has 
lived. 

The third and final reason, which convinces me of 
the prevalence of this mistake, which I am consider- 
ing, is the almost universal dread of sudden death. It 
is not to be denied, indeed, that a change so great, as 
that of death, and so mysterious too, is. in itself, and 
naturally, fitted to awaken a feeling of apprehension. 
But I maintain, that the principal reason for this appre- 
hension, is the fear of consequences, "the dread of 
something after death;" and that there is a vague 
hope in almost every mind, that some preparation 
could be made, at the last, if only a little time, were 
granted for it. And indeed, if we all entertained a 
settled conviction that, we are to reap as we have 
sowed, that we are to be miserable or happy in the 
other world, according to the character we have 
formed in this, that we are to be judged by the life we 



212 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



live, and not by the death we die ; what would it im- 
port to us, whether we fell suddenly, in the paths of 
life, or slowly declined from them — whether we sunk 
at once beneath the stroke of an apoplexy, or more 
slowly under the attack of a consumption? Some- 
thing, it would import to us, no doubt, as friends ; for 
we should wish to give our dying counsels ; but as ex- 
pectants of retribution, what could the time of a week 
or a month's last sickness avail us? I will answer: and 
I say, as much, — by the most favourable supposition, — 
as much as such a space of time, in any part of life 
could avail us; and no more. 

Such then and so fearful, and proved to be so fearful 
by the plainest indications, is the moral state of mul- 
titudes. Life is given them for the cultivation of a 
sacred virtue, of a lofty piety, of pure and godlike 
affections, as the only way to future improvement and 
happiness. They are not devoting life, to this end; 
they know they are not; they confess they are not; 
and their hope is — yes, the hope, on which they rest 
their whole being is, that by some hasty effort or 
paroxysm of emotion, in the feeble and helpless time 
of sickness, or in the dark day of death, they shall be 
able to redeem the lost hope of a negligent life. If 
only a week or a month of health were offered them 
to prepare ; if that specific time, a week or a month, 
were taken out from the midst of life, and they were 
solemnly told that this would be all the time they would 
have to prepare for eternity, they would be in despair; 
and yet they hope to do this, in a month or a week of 
pain and languishment and distracting agitation. It 
is, as if the husbandman should sport away the sum- 
mer reason, and then should think to retrieve his error, 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



213 



by planting his fields in the autumn. It is as if the 
student should trifle away the season appointed for his 
education, and then, when the time came for entering 
upon his profession, should think to make up for his 
deficiencies, by a few w T eeks of violent, hurried and 
irregular application. It shows, alas! that the world, 
with all its boasts of an enlightened age, has not yet 
escaped the folly of those days of superstition, when 
the eucharist was administered to dying persons, and 
was forcibly administered, if the patient had no longer 
sense to receive it ; or w T hen men deferred their bap- 
tism till death ; as if the future state were to depend on 
these last ceremonies. And as well depend on cere- 
monies — and more consistently could we do so, — as 
depend on any momentary preparation for happiness. 
As well build a church or a monastery to atone for our 
sins, as to build that fabric of error in our imagi- 
nation. 

It is not for us, I know T , to limit the Almighty ! It 
is not for us to say, that he cannot change the soul in 
the last moments of its stay on earth. But this we may 
fearlessly say; that he does it, if at all, by a miracu- 
lous agency, of whose working we can have no con- 
ception, and of whose results, by the very supposition, 
we can have no knowledge. 

I desire, my brethren, to state this point with all 
sufficient caution. I not only do not deny, that God 
has power to convert the soul in the last moments of 
life, but I do not absolutely deny that there may be 
some such instances in the passing away of every 
generation. I do not know, and none of us can know, 
whether such miracles are performed or not. It is 
commonly thought that the case recorded in Luke's 



214 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



Gospel, of the thief on the cross, is an instance of this 
nature. But I do not think it can be pronounced to 
be such. We know not how much time he may have 
had, to repent and form a new character. He says, 
"we indeed suffer justly;" but the act for which he 
suffered, may have been a single act, in which he had 
fallen from a generally good life. But admit that such 
interpositions do take place ; is it safe to rely upon 
them ? We do not know that they do. We do not 
know, that in the passing away of all the generations 
of mankind, there has been one such instance. Is it 
safe to rely, in so tremendous a case, upon what we 
do not know, and upon what, after all, may never be ? 
My object is to show that it is not safe ; and for this 
purpose, I shall reason upon the general principle. 
The general principle is that the future must answer 
for the present; the future of this life, for the present 
of this life ; the next month, for this month : the next 
year for this year; and in the same way the next life 
for this life. I say, then, that the expectation of any 
hasty retrieving of a bad month, of a bad year, of a 
bad life, is irrational, and unwarrantable, and ought to 
be considered as desperate. 

I. And for the purpose of showing this, I observe, in 
the first place, that the expectation of preparing for 
futurity hastily, or by any other means, than the vol- 
untary and deliberate formation of right and virtuous 
habits in the mind ; or that the expectation of pre- 
paring for death when it comes, is opposed to the 
professed import of that Sacred Volume, which gives 
law alike to our hopes and our fears. 

It is opposed to the obvious, and the professed, and 
the leading character of the Bible, What is that 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



215 



character? What is the Bible? It is a revelation of 
laws, motives, directions, and excitements, to religious 
virtue, But all of these are useless, if this character is 
to be formed by a miraculous energy, at a perilous 
conjuncture, or in a last moment. Motives must be 
contemplated, directions must be understood, excite- 
ments must be felt, to be effectual; and all this must 
be done deliberately, must be many times repeated, 
must be combined with diligence and patience and 
faith, and must be slowly, as every thing is slowly 
wrought into the character, in order to be effectual. 

But it may be said, "if the rule is so strict, where is 
the mercy of the Gospel?" I answer, that its very 
mercy is engaged to make us pure; that its mercy 
would be no mercy, if it did not do this ; and that, of 
becoming pure and good, there is but one way; and 
that is the way of voluntary effort — an effort to be 
assisted by divine grace, indeed, but none the less, on 
that account, an effort and an endeavour, a watching: 
and a striving, a conflict, and a victory. I answer, again ; 
that the mercy of the Gospel is a moral and rational, a 
high and glorious principle. It is not a principle of 
laxity, in morals. It is not a principle of indulgence, to 
the heart. It is a moral principle, and not a wonder- 
working machinery, by which a man is to be lifted up 
and borne away from guilt to purity, from earth to 
heaven, he know T s not how. It offers to fabricate 
no wings for the immortal flight. It is a rational prin- 
ciple; and is not based upon the subversion of all 
the laws of experience and wisdom. The Gospel 
opens the way to heaven — opens the way, to poor, 
sinful, ill-deserving creatures. Is not that, mercy 
enough? Shall the guilty and lost spurn that, and de- 



216 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



mand more? It opens the way, I repeat; but then, it 
lays its instructions, commands, and warnings thickly 
upon that way. With unnumbered directions to faith, 
and patience, and prayer, and toil, and self-denial, it 
marks out every step of that way. It tells us, again 
and again, that such is its way of salvation, and no 
other. In -other words, it offers us happiness, and 
prescribes the terms. And those terms, if they were 
of a meaner character, if they were low and lax, would 
degrade even our nature, and we could not respect 
them. It would, in fact, be no mercy to natures like 
ours, to treat them in any other way. 

In speaking of the scriptural representations on this 
subject, the parable of "the labourers in the vineyard" 
may probably occur to you, in which he who came at 
the eleventh hour, received as much as he who had 
borne the heat and burden of the day. I suppose the 
parable has no relation whatever to this subject. It 
cannot intend to teach that he who is a Christian during 
his whole life, is no more an object of the divine appro- 
bation, and is to be no more happy, than he who is so, 
for a very small part of it. It evidently refers to the 
introduction of the Christian dispensation; it relates to 
the Jews and Gentiles, as nations : meaning that the 
Gentiles, who came later into covenant with God, 
would be as favourably received as the Jews. 

To interpret this parable as encouraging men to put 
off their preparation for futurity till death, if there 
were no other objection, would contradict, I repeat, all 
the scriptural information we have on this subject. 
This would appear, if you should carry to the oracles 
of divine truth, any question whatever, about piety, or 
virtue, or the qualification for heaven. What is piety 



DISCOURSE Xffl, 



217 



itself? A momentary exercise ; or a habit? Some- 
thing thrown into the heart in a mass ; or a state of the 
heart itself, formed by long effort and care? Does 
the great qualification for heaven consist in one, two 
or ten good exercises ; or in a good character? And 
to what is that judgment to relate, which will decide 
our future condition? "Who will render, says the 
sacred record, to every man according to his deeds !" 

Open that most solemn and formal account of the 
judgment contained in the 25th chapter of Matthew; 
and what is the great test? I still answer, deeds; 
deeds of piety and charity, the conduct, the character, 
the permanent affections of each individual. But 
still further to decide the question, if it can be neces- 
sary, let it be asked, w r hat is that heaven of which 
we hear and say so much? What is heaven? Are 
we still, like children, fancying that heaven is a beauti- 
ful city, into which one needs only the pow T ers of loco- 
motion to enter ? Do we not know that heaven is in 
the mind ; in the greatness and purity and elevation of 
our immortal nature ? If piety and virtue then are 
a habit and state of mind expressed and acted out in 
a life, that is holy ; if the judgment has relation to this 
alone ; if heaven consist in this ; what hope can there 
be in a brief and slight preparation ? 

II. No, my friends, the terms on which we receive 
happiness — and I now appeal to reason in the second 
place — the terms on which we receive true, moral, 
satisfying happiness, cannot be easy. They are not ; 
experience shows that they are not ; life shows that 
they are not ; and eternity will but develop the same 
strict law ; for it is a part of our nature ; it is a part 
of the nature and reason of things. The senses may 

19 



218 



discourse xni. 



yield us such pleasure as they can yield, without 
effort ; taste may delight us, and imagination may 
minister to us, in careless reverie ; but conscience 
does not offer to us its happiness on such terms. I 
know not what may be the law for other beings, in some 
other sphere ; but I know that no truly, morally, happy 
being was ever made here, but through much effort, 
long culture, frequent self-denial, and abiding faith, 
patience, and prayer. To be truly happy— what is 
so difficult ? What is so rare ? And is heaven, think 
you — the blessed consummation of all that man can 
ask, — to be obtained at less expense than it will cost 
to gain one pure, calm day upon earth ? For even 
this comparatively trifling boon, one blessed day, one 
day of religious joy , one day of joy in meditation and 
prayer, one day of happiness that is spiritual, and not 
physical nor circumstantial — -even this comparatively 
slight boon, I say, cannot be gained without long pre- 
paration of mind, and heart, and habit. There are 
multitudes around us and of us, to whom, at this mo- 
ment, one such day's happiness is a thing just as im- 
possible, as it would be in that day to make a world I 
And shall they think to escape this very law of hap- 
piness under which they are actually living, and to fly 
away to heaven on the wings of imagination? — to 
pass at once from unfaithfulness to reward, from 
apathy to ecstasy, from the neglect and dislike of 
prayer to the blessed communion of heavenly worship, 
from this hour of being, absorbed in sense and the 
world, to an eternity of spiritual glory and triumph ? 
No; be assured that facts are here, as they are every 
where, worth more than fancies — be they those of 
dreaming visionaries or ingenious theologians; if you 



DISCOURSE xm. 



219 



are not now happy in penitence, and humility, and 
prayer, and the love of God, you are not in fact prepared 
to be happy in them hereafter. No, between the actual 
state of mind prevailing in many, and the bliss of 
heaven, " there is a great gulf fixed"— over which no 
wing of mortal nor angel w r as ever spread. No ; the 
law of essential, enduring, triumphant happiness, is 
labour and long preparation for it ; and it is a law 
which will never, never — never be annulled ! 

There is a law, too, concerning habits. It is im- 
plied in the following language. " Can the Ethiopian 
change his skin, or the leopard his spots ? Then may 
those who are accustomed to do evil, learn to do well." 
Habit is no slight bond. Slightly at first, and gently 
afterwards, may it have drawn its silken cords around 
us ; but not so are its bonds to be cast from us ; nor 
can they, like a green withe, be broken by one gigan- 
tic effort. No, the bonds of habit are chains and fet- 
ters, that must be worn off. Through the long pro- 
cess of slow and imperceptible degrees, they must 
be severed with weariness, and galling, and bitter 
anguish. 

" Can it be supposed," says an eloquent writer, and 
preacher, " that, where the vigour of life has been 
spent in the establishment of vicious propensities ; 
where all the vivacity of youth, and all the soberness 
of manhood, and all the wisdom of old age, have 
been given to the service of sin ; where vice has been 
growing with the growth, and strengthening with the 
strength ; where it has spread out with the limbs of 
the stripling, and become rigid with the fibres of the 
aged — can it, I say, be supposed, that the labours of 
such a life, are to be overthrown by one last exertion 



220 



DISCOURSE XIO, 



of the mind, impaired with disease % by the convulsive 
exercise of an affrighted spirit ; and by the inarticu- 
late and feeble sounds of an expiring breath V 9 

Besides, the rule is as equitable, as in the divine 
ordination of things, it is necessary. The judgment 
which ordains that whatsoever a man soweth, that 
shall he also reap, is a righteous judgment. It is easy 
no doubt, to regret a bad life, when it is just over. 
When death comes, and the man must leave his sinful 
indulgences and pleasures ; or, when he has no longer 
any capacity for enjoying them ; when sickness has 
enfeebled the appetites, or age has chilled the pas- 
sions, then, indeed, is it but a slight sacrifice, and a 
yet poorer merit in him, to feel regret. But regret 
let it be considered, is not repentance ! And wiiile 
the former may be easy and almost involuntary, the 
other — the repentance — may be as hard, as the ad- 
verse tendencies of a whole life can make it. Yes, 
the hardest of all things then, will be to repent. Yes, 
I repeat, that which is relied upon to save a man> 
after the best part of life has been lost, has become 
by the very habits of that life, almost a moral im- 
possibility. 

And the regret, the selfish regret — can it be ac- 
cepted ? I ask not if it can be accepted by our Maker ; 
I doubt not his infinite mercy ; but can it be accepted 
by our own nature ? Can our nature be purified by 
it ? Can the tears of that dark hour of selfish sorrow, 
or the awful insensibility which no tear comes to re- 
lieve — can either of them purge away from the bosom 
the stains of a life of sin ? Let us never make the 
fearful experiment ! Let us not go down to the last 
tremendous scene of life — there, amidst pain and dis- 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



221 



traction, with the work of life to do ! Let us not have 
to acquire peace from very terror, and hope from very 
despair : let us not, thus, trust ourselves to a judg- 
ment, ' - that will render unto us according to our deeds ; 
that will render, — mark the explanation — to them, 
who by patient continuance in well doing, seek for 
glory, honour and immortality, eternal life ; but tribu- 
lation and anguish to every soul that doeth evil." 

III. From these views of our subject, drawn from 
scripture, and reason, let me, in the third and last 
place, refer to a no less decisive consideration which 
is independent of them ; a consideration fully borne 
out by melancholy facts. It is this : that every man 
will die, very much as he lives : I mean, that in his 
character, his habits of feeling, he will. There is not 
this wide difference, between the living w r orld and the 
dying world, which is generally supposed. Character, 
as I have contended, and as we all see, indeed, is not 
formed in a moment ; it cannot, upon any known law 
or principle — it cannot, but in contradiction to every 
known law and principle, be changed in a moment. 
Christianity has introduced no law, in subversion of 
the great laws of experience, and rational motive, 
and moral action, or of its own established principles. 
Its doctrine of conversion is only misunderstood when 
it is supposed to provide a briefer and easier way of 
preparation for heaven, than watching and striving, 
and persevering in virtue, and patient continuance in 
well-doing. I say, therefore, and repeat the certain 
and solemn truth, that every man will die the same — 
essentially the same, that he has lived. 

For the correctness of this conclusion, I have soon 
to refer to a single, and as it seems to me, momentous 

19* 

I 



222 



DISCOURSE XIII, 



fact. But in the meantime, let me remark that there 
is one question here, which I view with a kind of ap 
prehension I scarcely know how to express ; with 
almost a dread, for once, to ask what the simple truth is. 

My brethren, w r e are sometimes called upon to pray 
for a change of heart, in the sinful and negligent man, 
as he is drawing nigh, in horror and agony, his last 
hour ! It is an awful situation even to him, who only 
ministers at that dying bed. What shall he do- — what 
can be done ? — I have asked myself. Shall I discourage 
prayer, even in the uttermost extremity ? Can I, when 
I hear from those lips that are soon to be sealed in 
death, the pathetic entreaty, " Oh ! pray" — can I re- 
fuse to pray ? I do not ; I cannot. Prayer is our 
duty ; events are with God. But I must say, I will 
say — I will tell the negligent man beforehand, what I 
fear. I fear, I do fear, that such praying is nothing 
better than the supplication of our terror and 
despair ! I fear, that it is altogether an irrational and 
unauthorized praying ! I fear that it is like praying, 
that guilt, and even a whole life of it, may feel no en- 
during remorse, that sin may not be followed by sor- 
row, that vice may leap at once to the rewards of vir- 
tue, that the sword which a man has plunged into his 
bosom, may not wound him, or that the envenomed 
draught he has taken, may not poison ! I fear that it 
is, as if we should take our station on the banks of the 
mighty river, that is pouring its accumulated waters 
into the ocean, and pray that they may turn back to 
their fountain-head ; or as if we should gaze upon the 
descending sun in heaven, and pray that he may stand 
still in his course ! I tremble with a strange misgiving, 
as if it were a praying not to God, but against God I 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



223 



For, what is this prayer ? It cannot harm us to 
make the inquiry now, before that crisis comes. 
What is this prayer ? It is a prayer that the flow of 
moral habits may turn back to its source ; that the 
great course of moral causes and effects may all be 
stopped ; that the great laws of the moral universe 
may all be suspended. It is praying against many 
a solemn declaration of Holy Writ. And will it — I 
ask — will the prayer be heard ? Again, I tremble, at 
that question : again, my misgivings come over me ; 
I ask — but I know not what to answer. I know in 
fact — I may conjecture, and hope — but I know of no 
answer to that awful question, unless it be in this more 
awful language. " Be not deceived'' — it sounds like 
a warning in my ear — "be not deceived : God is not 
mocked r — man's indulgence may flatter him ; plau- 
sible systems of his own devising may encourage him 
to venture his soul upon an easier way of salvation ; 
and weaker bands than those of almighty justice might 
have been escaped, but — " God is not mocked ; for 
whatsoever a man soweth" — not what he wishes, 
when the seeds of sin are implanted, and have sprung 
up, have grown to maturity — I cannot read it so— but, 
" whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." 

Tell me not the oft-repeated tale, of a death-bed 
repentance. I turn to it an incredulous ear. What 
does it amount to, even when it comes with the kind- 
est testimony of partial affection ? Alas ! it is doubtful, 
even in its utmost latitude, and in the moment when it 
claims our utmost sympathy. For what is it ? It is, 
that the subject of this charitable judgment, was will- 
ing to die, when to die was inevitable ; that he sought 
for pardon, when he felt that he must be pardoned or 



224 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



perish in his sins : that he prayed, but it was when 
Atheists have prayed; that he hoped; ah! he hoped, 
when it had become too terrible to despair ! 

And now what is the result ? What is it, that the 
issue of all this fearful, I cannot call it flattering, ex- 
perience tells us? What is the fact, on which this 
solemn conclusion, concerning the inefficacy of a 
death-bed repentance, rests? In many cases it is 
revealed only in another world, and is beyond our 
scrutiny. But when it is known, I beg it may be 
solemnly considered what it is, and what is its bear- 
ing on the hopes of a death-bed repentance. The 
result is—and I speak, let it be repeated, of a fact — 
the result is almost without exception, in cases where 
the subject of such experience recovers, that he re- 
turns to his old habits of living, without any, or any 
but a very slight and temporary change. In many 
such instances, where the experience has been very 
bright and convincing, the individual retains no recol- 
lection of any thing he said, or was supposed to have 
felt. It was all a delirium. The moral state as well 
as the mental state, was all delirium. And there is 
too much reason to fear that all such experience is a 
moral delirium, at best.— 1 would not willingly dis- 
turb, for one moment, the peace of a fond and anxious 
friendship. I will not speak of the state of those, who 
are dead ; but I must speak of the dangers of those, 
who are living. And surely, if there are any, this side 
of the retributions of eternity, who could most fear 
fully warn you not to postpone religion to a dying hour , 
it would be those, who have hung with anxious watch- 
ings around the last hours of the disobedient and irre- 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



225 



ligious, and have trembled, and prayed, and wept, for 
their welfare ! 

My friends, I have only time to present to you and to 
myself, one practical question ; are we habitually ready 
to die ? The question, my brethren, is not, whether 
we expect to be ready at some future time. It is not 
whether we mean to be ready. It is not whether we 
are making the most solemn promises to ourselves 
that we will, some time, set about the preparation for 
that great hour. But the question is, are we ready 
for it now? Are we habitually ready? Are we 
convinced that we are to be judged not by some 
imaginary life which we intend, and intend, and for 
ever intend to lead, and which we never do lead, be- 
cause we are always intending it — are we convinced, 
1 say, that we are to be judged not by that imaginary 
life which we are for ever intending to lead, but by the 
life which we are now actually living ? Have we 
given up the folly of expecting to do any thing in fu- 
ture, which w r e will not do now ; of expecting to do 
that in sickness, which we cannot do in health ; of ex- 
pecting to do that in death, w^hieh we cannot do in 
life ? Are we doing just as much to prepare as if the 
judgment were to depend on what we are doing — for 
it is to depend on what we are doing, and doing, and 
doing, through the v/hole of life — as much, I say, as if 
the judgment were to depend on these hourly deeds 
which we are now performing, on these momentary 

feelings which we are now cherishing? -If not, then, 

there ought to be a revolution in our lives — call it 
conversion, regeneration, a change of heart, I care 
not by what name — but, I say, that there ought to be 
a revolution in our lives, of such magnitude and mo« 



226 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



ment, that the eternal judgment only can declare it ? 
Are we, then, habitually ready to die ? If not ha- 
bitually, we never are, for religion is a habit. If not 
habitually; if not, at least, habitually making ourselves 
ready, there is reason to fear that we never shall be ; 
for life — do you not perceive ? — is a tissue of thoughts, 
purposes, and feelings, which is growing stronger, as 
it lengthens, so that the disinclination to prepare for 
death is growing every moment, while, every moment 
the time for it lessens. 

There is a vague notion — for it is the hope of all that 
death will not break into the midst of life— a vague no- 
tion, with many, of retiring in advancing years from the 
cares and business of life to make this preparation, which 
involves great and hazardous mistake. They seem to 
think that the heart will become pure and spiritual and 
heavenly, as the state of life becomes quiet and free 
from the urgency of worldly cares. Delusive expec- 
tation ! — as if all growth in nature were not most vigor- 
ous amidst calm and silence: as if, in like manner, the 
rooted passions of the soul were not likely to grow 
stronger and more stubborn, amidst the silence and 
quietude of declining years! What is the fact? Did 
you ever see selfishness, or avarice, or a worldly mind, 
lose its accustomed power in such circumstances ? On 
the contrary, we know — who has not witnessed sad 
and striking instances of it— we know, that nothing is 
more common, than for avarice and worldliness to 
find strength in leisure and freedom in retirement; 
that they fix a stronger grasp upon the decaying facul- 
ties, and fling their icy bonds over the soul amidst the 
winter of age. As well might the Ethiopian change 
his complexion, by retiring from the scorching sun, to 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



227 



his shaded hut: as soon might the leopard lose his spots, 
barely by plunging into the solitudes of the wilderness ; 

when the flood could not wash them away. 

The waters of death are not waters of ablution, but 
rather do they give the colouring and complexion to 
our destiny. They are not a slow and oblivious stream ; 
but rather a rushing torrent that bears us away, before 
we are aware. Death comes suddenly to all. It 
does break sooner or later into the midst of life. It 
comes at a time when we think not. It comes, not 
when all our plans are ready for it; not with harbin- 
gers and prophecies and preparations; not with a 
heart-thrilling message, saying, " set thy house in order ; 
for this year thou shalt die;" no voice is in the infec- 
tious breath of the air that brings contagion and death 
with it; no coming step startles us when disease is 
approaching; no summoning hand knocks at the gate 
of life, when its last dread foe is about to enter its 
dark and guarded passages; no monitory conviction 
within, says, "this month — this week I shall die!" No, 
it comes at a time when w r e think not; it comes upon 
an unprepared hour, unless our life be preparation ; it 
finds us with all our faults, with all our sins about us; 
it finds us, that which life has made us — finds us such 
as the very action, habit, and spirit of life, have made 
us — and bids us die, such as we lived ! 

Who of you will meet his end when he expects it? 
Perhaps not one. Or, if you should, how solemn a 
message would you address to the living ! Who of us, 
has, in our own apprehension, been brought to such a 
crisis, but has had thoughts, which no language can 
utter, on this momentous concern ? We felt that then 
was not the time to prepare. "Ohi not now T — not 



228 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



here !" is the language of the dying man, as with broken 
utterance, and the failing and faltering breath of life 
he testifies his last conviction, "not now — not here, is 
the place or the time, to prepare for death!" And he 
feels, too, that all which the world contains, vanishes 
into nothing, compared with this preparation ! Are 
we, then, prepared? — not by a preternatural or extra- 
vagant state of feeling ; not by glooms, nor by raptures ; 
nor by any assurance, nor by any horror of mind ; but 
by the habitual and calm discharge of our duty, by 
labours of kindness, by the spirit of devotion? — by a 
temper of mind, kindred to that heaven which we hope 
to enter? Are we thus ready, every day, every hour? 
On the exchange, in the office, in the study ; in the 
house and by the way; in the work-shop, and in the 
field; are we ever ready? "Blessed are those ser- 
vants, whom the Lord when he cometh shall find 
watching: — and if he shall come, in the second watch, 
or in the third watch, and find them so, Blessed are 
those servants." 



229 



DISCOURSE XIV. 

ON DELAY IN RELIGION. 



ACTS 24. 25. Go thy way for this time ; when I have 

A CONVENIENT SEASON, I WILL CALL FOR THEE. 

Thus answered Felix, when Paul "reasoned of 
righteousness,and temperance, and judgment to come," 
So impressive was the expostulation, that, as we are 
told, "Felix trembled:" and yet so strong was his love 
of indulgence and ease, that though shaken by the ter- 
rors of conscience, he could say, "go thy way for this 
time; when I have a convenient season, I will call for 
thee." 

This, my friends, is not a solitary instance in the 
history of human conduct. Felix, the easy sensualist, 
the self-indulgent worldling, the negligent excuser of 
himself, has more followers, we must fear, than Paul, 
the fearless preacher. There are more to resist the 
voice of conscience, than to urge its reproof. 

Yet there are times of admonition — even though the 
lips of every other teacher were silent — there are 
times of God's admonition, that come to all. The 
events of life, or the fears of death, sometimes arouse 
the most careless. The stern call of adversity com- 
pels attention ; or the time of escape from danger, of 
relief from sickness, or of full and overflowing pros- 

20 



230 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



perity, touches with ingenuous feeling, the minds of 
the most thoughtless. There are seasons, too, of more 
than ordinary reflection. The conviction, sometimes 
comes with power, — we hardly know whence it comes 
— that our life is hasting away, and that but little 
time is left to fulfil its duties, and to secure its better 
hopes. Or, else, conscience, — like the preacher in our 
text — conscience conies forth from its prison of long 
confinement and silence, and reasons with the guilty 
heart of righteousness, and temperance, and judgment 
to come, till it trembles. Alas! that these eventful 
hours and moments, should glide away like other mo- 
ments and hours of life ? and be lost in the tide of com- 
mon affairs and events 1 Yet it is even so. The greatest 
and most solemn feelings of the human heart, may pass 
aw r ay, and leave no deeper trace, than its most idle 
fancies. Felix trembled ; and Agrippa afterwards 
said in the same judgment-hall, to the same preacher, 
"almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian ;" and yet 
these declarations are not the record of the lives ot 
these men, but the record of one awful moment. 
Again the world rushed in with its cares and pleasures ; 
again indulgence pleaded and pride flattered; and the 
moment — the moment of promise, and of peril — was 
lost; lost, never to be recovered ; never to be recalled 
perhaps, till the great judgment shall reveal its un- 
speakable solemnity and consequence. 

And do you ask how it is that the most precious 
moments of our earthly existence are thus lost; how 
\t is that the embryo purposes of duty are destroyed, 
how it is that what are seemingly the very epochs ol 
our improvement — how it is that the fairest signals ol 
hope, become the monuments of our shame and con- 



DISCOURSE XIV, 



231 



demnation? I answer in the language of all expe- 
rience, and of all Scripture, — the reason is to be 
found, in the plea of delay. It is not because any one 
resolves upon sinning, and suffering the penalty, but it is 
because every one is promising future amendment. It 
is not because the human heart can boldly and impera- 
tively silence the "strong monitions" of conscience, but 
because it can evade them ; because it can say, to each 
one of them successively, "go thy way for this time. 
Go thy way, not for ever ;" that were too fearful to say ; 
" not for ever; Oh noi I will call thee back again ; when 
there is a convenient season, I will call for thee: but 
go thy way for this time." 

Let us, then, endeavour to spread out a little this 
plea of delay, and consider in some particulars its 
nature. 

In the path of transgression, the traveller is always 
in straits of difficulty, which urge him forward. His 
way on either side, is hedged up, and to his own ap- 
prehension, he is always put under the necessity of 
proceeding. Now this would render him extremely 
uneasy, and would be quite intolerable, indeed, if the 
case were never to be any better. But though he is 
rushing on in a narrow and headlong passage, he 
always descries a point before him, where to the eye of 
his imagination, the path becomes wider; some fair 
and tranquil spot, where he will have leisure to pause 
and consider. There is never — there never was — 
there never will be — a course of sinful indulgence, or 
of sinful neglect, but it has, and for ever will have, 
marked out somewhere in its progress, the more con- 
venient season. There is always a period, but it is 
never present— there is always a period coming, wheft 



232 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



temptation is to intermit its power; when the ever- 
besetting obstacles to present duty, are to be with- 
drawn. "It is true/' (says the victim of procrastina- 
tion,) "it is true, that religion is a thing which ought to 
be attended to, and must be: it is true, for instance, 
that this act of piety, or benevolence, ought to be per- 
formed, or that extravagance or indulgence ought to 
be laid aside, but a number of circumstances, he says, 
for the present render it particularly inconvenient. In 
a little time, things will change for the better; and then, 
the matter shall most assuredly be attended to." 

Or else, some evil habit — this very procrastination 
indeed becomes a habit and one of the most fatal — -but 
some habit of sensual vice, is stealing upon the man, 
who yet maintains an outward decency. And he in- 
tends to maintain it. No man in the world less intends 
to become the victim of violent passion, and vile pro- 
fligacy. But now is not the convenient season to 
reform. When this time of trouble or of provocation 
has passed by, for which at present he says, "some 
solace is needed, or some indulgence is lawful, then 
the evil is to be manfully resisted." Or perhaps the 
subject of duty is viewed on a larger scale. There are 
many who feel that they ought to do much more to 
prepare for a future state, than they have been wont to 
do. They feel that they are not yet Christians : that 
religion is not with them the concern of chief interest ; 
that prayer is not their pleasure ; that God is not the 
supreme object of love, and fear, and obedience. 
Something is yet to be done. They are yet to pray, 
and to care for the soul. They do not intend to leave 
the world, in total neglect of the great and sublime 
purpose for which they were sent into it. They dare 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



233 



not meet the God of life, and of judgment, thus. But 
for the present, the cares of this world, or the deceitful- 
ness of riches, or the lusts of other things, choke the 
feeble purpose, and render it fruitless. The pleasures 
of youth, awhile plead for delay in religion; then the 
business of manhood takes up the excuse; and be- 
queaths it, in turn, to the infirmities of age. All cir- 
cumstances admit the promise; none favour the 
performance of it. There is a time of leisure and 
tranquillity, for meditation and prayer; there is a 
convenient time; but it is for ever to come. In futu- 
rity with these persons — in futurity, not in present 
action— is all the hope of salvation. But futurity, is 
eternal. It can promise for ever, and never be requir- 
ed to perform. 

Such is the plea of delay. Let us now proceed to 
consider, in the next place, how it ought to be regard- 
ed. And here let me observe, that I am not speaking 
in this discourse, merely to a class of persons, who in 
the language of our pulpit, are called sinners. I w r ould 
speak to all, be they called sinners or Christians, who 
are conscious that they are delaying to do any thing, 
which they ought to do. And there are three charac- 
ters under which, I think, this habit of mind will 
appear to you. The plea of delay is one fraught with 
guilt, delusion, and danger. 

I. First, it is a plea fraught with guilt. It is an in- 
excusable plea. It is by the very acknowledgment of 
him who employs it — it is emphatically, pleading 
guilty. For it implies the knowledge of duty, and the 
deliberate purpose to violate it. It is not sinning 
through haste, ignorance, or mistake. It is not sinning, 
and afterwards confessing it ; but it is a case, in which 

20* 



234 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



confession goes before the act. It is not reasoning 
away the conviction of duty ; but it is admitting and 
violating it, in the same moment. The language of the 
procrastinator is in terms like these; "I know that 
this is my duty," — for if he does not admit the obliga- 
tion in question, why does he excuse himself? why, 
not say at once, this is not my duty and I shall not 
perform it? — -his language, then, is, " I know that this 
is my duty ; I know that my Maker has commanded 
it ; I know that his commands relate to the present 
moment, and to every moment of my existence ; but 
yet" — but what? — we are ready to exclaim — does he 
in express terms refuse obedience? Does he abso- 
lutely say, " I will not perform it?" No ; not absolutely, 
but he virtually says it in the plea of delay. He re- 
solves to neglect the command of God, though he 
would not dare to utter the resolution. He resolves 
to neglect the command of God, though he would not 
dare w T ith the slightest whisper, to breathe the resolu- 
tion into the ear of his neighbour. But, remember, my 
friend, that the language which God regards, is not the 
language of the lips, but of the heart and the life. And 
if he who knew not, and did commit things worthy of 
punishment, shall suffer for it ; what shall be the lot of 
him who knew his Lord's will, who confessed the duty 
he owed, and prepared not himself? 

"Had I not come and spoken unto them," said our 
Saviour, "they had not had sin, but now they have no 
cloak for their sin." Had not Felix heard Paul, had 
he not been convinced of righteousness and judgment 
to come, he would have had less to answer for. But 
the plea of delay involves in it, the very sentence of 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



235 



condemnation ; a sentence, which he who uses it, in 
the very act, pronounces against himself. 

II. The second characteristic of the plea of delay 
is its delusiveness. 

It would be too much, perhaps, to say that it is ab- 
solutely insincere. None, probably, use it with the 
secret understanding that it is an artifice. Men, it is 
rather to be supposed, are its honest dupes. They sin- 
cerely imagine, that the time of promised amendment 
will come. 

Now, herein, consists the delusion; not only that it 
is utterly improbable that the time ever will come; 
but that it is rendered more improbable, by this very 
promise, that it shall come. This very expectation of 
being religious by and bye, is, in fact, the greatest pos- 
sible occasion for despondency. And so long as it is 
promised and resolved upon, the thing itself, of course, 
can never take place. The spirit of the promise, so 
long as it exists, forbids the very hope of amendment. 

For thus I reason. Why cannot the wicked man 
turn from his wicked way, now ? Why cannot the 
vicious man dash from his lips the deadly cup, this 
moment? Why cannot the profane man cease to vio- 
late the sacred name of his Maker, from henceforth? 
Why cannot the man who is delaying the great duty 
and interest of life, begin a course of religious virtue 
and piety, this very day, this very hour? Is it because 
his habits, his passions, his desires, are adverse? With- 
out doubt this is the reason. Now in the name of all 
that is true and rational, let it be asked — are these 
evil habits, and passions, and desires, to become more 
favourable to virtue and purity, by indulgence^. Is the 
veteran sinner more likely to turn than the stripling 



236 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



in vice? Is an aversion to religion, or to any part of 
it, to prayer, to watchfulness, to strict virtue, is such 
an aversion to be conciliated, by being indulged and 
made habitual? Will you pamper the passions into 
self-denial? Will you exasperate an evil temper into 
gentleness and kindness? Will you throw up the reins 
to sin, under a notion that you may, by and bye, 
more easily restrain it? 

Now mark the complicated delusion. It is difficult 
to reform a wrong habit or to establish a right one, at 
present, and therefore it is deferred ; deferred, let it be 
remembered, precisely because it is difficult. Delay, 
at every moment, increases the difficulty. Meanwhile, 
the mind reposes with self-complacency, on its specious 
purposes; and, at last, it is probable, to complete the 
deception, pleads, in extenuation of its sins, the very 
purposes, which it has violated. 

There is a strange fatality attending all moral delin- 
quency, all irreligion, in every form of it. To the trans- 
gressor things never — no, they never appear as they 
are. In the course of sin, or of sinful neglect, for 
instance, every human being believes, himself to be an 
exception from all others. "I know indeed," says the 
anxious delayer of his duty, "that the time for amend- 
ment has never come to thousands who expected it as 
I do: but mine is to be a different lot. There are many 
days yet before me, and I intend, I am resolved, one 
day, to pursue a different course. I do not intend to 
die as I live," Thus he is led on by the illusions of 
hope till he is beyond the reach of this world's great 
probation. Millions have walked in that way to the 
regions of moral perdition, yet he is persuaded there 
is something in his case, to distinguish it from them all. 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



237 



And every one of those millions, he knows, entertained 
the same persuasion ; but their failure does not shake 
his confidence. 

Of this miserable delusion the case related in our 
text, with the circumstances, furnishes a striking ex- 
ample. Felix heard the voice of truth and was troubled. 
Conscience spoke within him and would not be utterly 
silenced. He felt— O how solemn with a man is the 
visitation and the hour of conscience ! he felt that the 
call must be answered. He felt that he must do some- 
thing. And how does he meet this necessity — this 
great, this self-enforced necessity? What answer 
does he return to the message? Alas! he dismisses it 
with & promise! He says to him who brought it, "go 
thy way, for this time !" The preacher retired. Why, 
you are ready to ask, did not the very sound of his de- 
parting steps carry alarm to the breast of this anxious 
inquirer? Ah! it was that delusive promise, "when I 
have a convenient season I will call for thee." With 
this he regained his peace of mind, and life passed on 
as before. In pride, in pleasure, in popular favour, 
Felix forgot the lonely captive. Day succeeded to day, 
and month, to month ; but we hear no more of the fatal 
promise. But what do we hear? Why, that this same 
man, this Felix, two years after, " to do the Jews a 
pleasure," contrary to what he knew to be the dictates 
of justice and humanity, "left the preacher bound 
in prison." Thus ended the promise of Felix; and 
thus, with scarcely an exception, end all pleas of delay 
in religion. 

But do they result in simple mistake? Is it the 
worst of the case that the delaying sinner deceives 
himself? No, my friends, delusion in matters of duty 



238 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



is something worse than mistake— it is injury of the 
most alarming kind. 

III. This leads me to the third remark; viz. that the 
plea of delay is dangerous. Its danger has already in 
part appeared, but it claims farther attention. 

It ought to be considered, not only that the habit of 
procrastination is nothing else but a habit of deceiving 
ourselves, but that it is above all others fatal. It were 
bad enough to postpone our duty, and withal to de- 
lude ourselves ; but to be morally deceived in being 
deluded, to make the fair promise of better things the 
very lure to perdition, to make ourselves the more 
easy, when we are doing the more wrong — to muffle, 
and to keep out of sight, the deadly weapon, only that 
it may strike a more secret and a more fatal blow ; 
there is something in this that is well fitted to shock 
and alarm us. Yet this is the simple statement of what 
is true in the case of every man, who delays to do what 
he knows that he ought to do. The direct way to 
make the inclination to sinful indulgence ruinous, is to 
flatter ourselves with the promise of amendment. 
There is nothing — for I must repeat and insist upon 
this observation— there is nothing so completely fatal 
to every reasonable prospect of being religious, as this 
promise to be religious at some future time. If it 
were not for this there might be some hope. 

But this promise of amendment is specious. It 
seems to take off the boldness and impiety of trans- 
gression. 

This paltering with conscience, amuses and stupifies 
it at the same time. It were infinitely better to say — 
for bold and impious as it may seem, it would be say- 
ing the truth—" I do not obey the commands of God, 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



239 



and I shall not: I am not a Christian, and I do not ex- 
pect to be one ; I have no reason to think that my 
feelings or habits are to be changed, by being cherished ; 
I shall probably— without an immediate endeavour to 
amend — shall probably be, ten or twenty years hence, 
only more decidedly and habitually what I am now ; 
I shall almost certainly die, as I am now living/' This, 
my friends, is the plain and sober truth; and if the 
conscience could awake to its full, and its fearful im- 
port, it would not be easily lulled again into the sleep 
of death. 

Withal, and to complete the danger of delay, the 
work of evil habits is imperceptible and speedy. There 
is blindness in the way, and it is ever terminated by a 
fearful precipice. 

The progress of gross vice, and its end, are an illus- 
tration of the progress of all sin. The man who is 
plunging into vicious habits, will admit to you, perhaps, 
that the consequences, if he goes on, are tremendous, 
Consequences? Let them be tremendous. What is 
that to him ? What has he to do w T ith consequences? 
He does not mean to reach them. He has no intention 
of proceeding so far. A little indulgence can do him 
no harm, and it is a very different thing — is it not? — a 
very different thing, from being grossly sottish and 
vile. That he is determined he never will be. He 
cannot resolve to leave off, just now T ; and he cannot 
see that it is at all necessary. He surely has the power 
of free choice, and he can stop when he pleases. 
Perhaps he is resolved that he will do so, after he has 
proceeded to a certain extent. He is not so blind, as 
his friends think he is, and as some good people and 
some worthy preachers would represent. He knows 



240 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



all that you can tell him. He claims one distinction, at 
least among the vicious. He is not a fool. He is not 
without his thoughts. 

Thus he reasons. x\nd while he reasons, habit 
strengthens; and ruin overtakes him before he is 
aware. His reputation is suddenly gone ; disease has 
secretly sapped the foundations of his firmness and 
strength; and death surprises him with its ghastly 
visage, before he is aware that he is declining from 
the path of health, and enjoyment, and life. "He 
that being often reproved hardeneth his neck, shall 
suddenly be destroyed and that without remedy!" 

Besides, if the plea of delay were not thus hazard- 
ous ; if it did not appear as if invented on purpose 
to insure the ruin of its victim: if it were ever so 
promising; if the work of evil habits were not so 
imperceptible and speedy; still there is the dan- 
ger of a total uncertainty about the continuance of 
life. If you should appoint a time, when you are to 
commence that better life of piety and prayer, ot 
which you are thinking, that time may be too late. 
The expected day will come, indeed; but it may shine 
upon your grave. For what is your life ? It is a vapour, 
that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth 
away. I have seen it rise : the beam of morning kin- 
dled it ; but the beam that kindled, dissolved, and dis- 
sipated it for ever! Such is life. It appeareth for a 
little time ; and the only certainty about the length oi 
its actual continuance, is, that it is totally uncertain. 
To-morrow's sun may melt it away. A breath of wind 
may scatter it. The touch of death may at any moment 
dissolve it. At any moment, this phantom life may 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



241 



disappear; and eternity break in upon the delusive 
dream of promised amendment. 

And is this brief and hasty hour of our being, the 
season for delay? Do we employ ourselves in delays, 
when we have hardly time to act ? Do the already 
frail and dying, delay their preparation for sickness and 
death? If some thousands of years were allotted to us 
on earth, there might be a show of reason — and yet if 
what we have said be true, only a show of reason, in 
deferring. But what shall we think of it, when the 
time is all too short for resolution and for action? 

And yet, perhaps, with some of us, the period of life 
that is past, has been up to this time, a period of delay. 
We have, many of us, not been more religious and de- 
vout, more correct and virtuous, more humble, kind 
and forbearing, more faithful and blameless in all the 
commandments and ordinances of the Lord, not be- 
cause we never intend to be so, but because we are 
delaying to be so. We are still saying to conscience, 
and to the command of God, and to all the kind and all 
the awful messages of Providence, "go thy way for 
this time." 

When shall this inexpressible — I had almost said, 
this insufferable folly of indecision, be given up ? When 
will men cease to seal their destruction, under the 
promise of escaping it ? There are but two states of 
mind on this subject, that can, for an instant, stand the 
test of reason — either to resolve never to lead a life 
of piety and virtue, or to begin that life this very day. 
Any other course is such manifest infatuation as can- 
not, in reason, be entertained for a moment. And 
dreadful as the alternative to the right choice, is, I 
would press every mind to it, I would throw every 

21 



242 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



thing upon that cast, rather than leave the issue to that 
fatal indecision which will not even lift its hand to 
choose. I adjure you, tell us not any longer, of a more 
convenient season. I put this matter to your reason. 
I will use no tender exhortation, no soft entreaty now, 
though our blessed religion is full of such. I put this 
matter to stern and solemn reason : and I say — resolve 
to begin the religious life now, — or take the utter- 
most hazard of perdition ! 



243 



DISCOURSE XV. 

ARGUMENTS FOR RENEWED DILIGENCE IN RELIGION. 

(Preached on the last Sabbath of the year.) 



ROMANS 13. 11. And that, knowing the time, that 

NOW IT IS HIGH TIME TO AWAKE OUT OF SLEEP. 

Sin is here compared to a sleep. It is the sleep of 
the soul ; the sleep not of the senses, for they are often 
in these circumstances intensely alive and awake to 
their objects—but the sleep of the soul. It is the in- 
sensibility, the lethargy, the death-like stupor of the 
higher, the moral, the immortal nature. In this sleep 
of the soul, there is the same insensibility to spiritual 
things, as in natural sleep, there is to natural things. 
To the natural sleeper — -all the objects around him, be 
they ever so interesting and splendid and wonderful, 
all that would otherwise occupy his hands, or engage 
his thoughts, or delight his vision, all the voices of ac- 
tive and stirring life around him, all the ministrations 
of nature, all the magnificence of heaven, — to him are 
no more than if they were blotted out of existence. 
He sees not, he hears not, he feels nothing, he pursues 
nothing; he has no desires, nor fears, nor hopes; though 
the crowded world of objects and interests and 
changes and operations, is all about him, and heaven, 



244 



DISCOURSE XV. 



thronged with all its glorious spheres, is stretched over 
him, yet they are no more to him, than, to the insen- 
sible clod. So it is with the moral sleeper. 

There is a world of moral realities, interesting, glori- 
ous and wonderful ; there is a world of spiritual visions 
and voices, all around him; but to his ear, and his eye, 
and his heart, and his consciousness, they are nothing. 
Though these realities of spiritual life and beauty, 
these glories of the spiritual nature and of the ever- 
lasting gospel, are fairer and richer than all the trea- 
sures of earth, and brighter than all the splendors of 
heaven, yet he sees not this, and he believes it not. 

Are not many thus asleep? Are they not all around 
us, reposing in bowers of worldly ease, stretched on 
couches of worldly indulgence, lulled by the viol of 
pleasure, fanned by breezes of prosperity, bewildered 
by phantoms of ambition — or darkly and blindly strug- 
gling with evils, with trials, and with sorrows — yet all 
sunk more or less deeply in this deathlike slumber of 
the soul? Let us pursue the inquiry and the com- 
parison. 

The moral, like the natural sleeper, has dreams. 
And he dreams of realities. Yes, the great realities — 
heaven and hell, the soul's worth, and treasure, and 
destiny, and danger, — to many a man are nothing but 
dreams. They pass before him, like the visions of the 
night ; but they engage no waking energy, nor earnest 
or constant pursuit. The vision of religious truths 
and objects, is sometimes, perhaps, awful and alarming; 
but still though disturbed and partially awakened, he 
is asleep ; his mind is aroused only to momentary 
consciousness; only enough aroused to say, and to 
feel relieved by saying, " it is a dream." He is glad 



DISCOURSE XV. 



245 



that the impression does not last with him, He shakes 
from him the transient sense of these realities, as if 
they were the merest delusions. Yes, to the moral 
sleeper, the connection of the future with the present, 
the tissue of these daily thoughts and feelings that is 
binding him to future welfare or woe, the web of des- 
tiny, is but "such stuff as dreams are made of." 

The moral sleeper, too, like the natural, is not only 
disturbed, or perchance delighted, with the visions of 
his sleep; but he is sometimes more fully awakened. 
The strong hand of affliction is laid upon him, or the 
rough hand of danger shakes him from his deep slum- 
bers; or his fellow-sleeper, perhaps, begins to awake 
and to arouse himself; and he is partially awakened : 
but he dislikes the interruption, he is angry and peevish 
at the disturbance; or he feebly promises, saying, — in 
the words, which an ancient prophet, as if he were, 
indeed, a prophet for all future time, hath put into the 
mouth of just such a sleeper — saying, "a little more 
sleep, a little more slumber; I will awake soon;" and 
then he sinks into a still deeper repose, from which, it 
may be, nothing but the shock of death will ever arouse 
him! 

For, is not the sleep of sin — notwithstanding these 
interruptions and these dreams — is not the sleep of sin 
still heavy upon him, who is, after all, insensible to 
truth, insensible to spiritual objects and affections, in- 
sensible to sin itself ? There is that in every man's 
heart, which should make him sigh, and weep, and 
tremble ; and is he not morally asleep if he is insen- 
sible to it? — if he does not arouse himself to contend 
against his spiritual foes, to watch over his moral 
maladies, to keep his too much and too long neglected 

21 * 



246 



DISCOURSE XV. 



heart with all diligence? There is that, also, within 
every man, which should make him rejoice and glory; 
the power and privilege which God gives him of reco- 
very to virtue and piety and heaven, the traces of a 
divine original, the spark, which kindled, may glow 
and brighten for ever ; yes, it is that which should 
make him rejoice and hope and aspire, which should 
bow him to awe, and melt him to thanksgiving, which 
should make him feel, that he has within him, a trust 
and a treasure, more honourable and precious than all 
the goods and distinctions of the world. And if he is 
insensible to all this, if he does nothing for his inward 
welfare, if he does not w T atch nor strive, if he does not 
even fear nor pray ; is he not in regard to that pre- 
cious, that better nature, asleep? Does not the soul 
sleep, when its truest and noblest interests, are the in- 
terests most of all left out of sight and neglected? Is 
not the eye of the soul closed, and its ear heavy with 
slumber, when it sees and hears nothing of all that, 
which should most of all arouse and awe and gladden 
and transport it ? 

Perhaps, some may think, that the picture is over- 
drawn. And for the spiritual condition of many, we 
may hope, that it is. And w 7 e do not say, you will 
observe, that in any the sleep is profound and undis- 
turbed. But nevertheless how deep it is we may not 
properly apprehend, because we do not consider what 
it is to be properly aw T ake to the soul. 

What is it to be awake to the soul ? -Let us 

see what it is to be awake in worldly things. How 
clear is the vision of men when directed to their 
outward interests ! How keenly do they discriminate, 
how accurately do they judge, how eagerly do they 



DISCOURSE XV. 



247 



pursue ! It needs no Sabbaths, no set times, to medi- 
tate on stocks, and bargains, and speculations. It 
needs no sermons to remind men of these things. 
Every sense, and member, and faculty is awake, and 
alive, and intensely employed, in the earnest toil and 
competition of life. Here are no faint impressions, 
no dim peceptions, no doubts, no objections, no eva- 
sions. To the worldly, it may be said — to those of 
the worldly who now hear me, I may say — you are 
all inquiring how you shall do more, and gain more ; 
not excusing yourselves, and striving to do the least 
that will satisfy your own minds ; not excusing your- 
selves, and putting off business, as you put off duty, 
upon your neighbour ; and saying it may be proper 
for this, and that, and the other man, to go forward, 
and do business, and get gain. No, you grasp at the 
bare chance of worldly profit. You step manfully 
forward, not waiting for others, not walking timidly 
and doubtfully, and straining your eyes, to detect, on 
every side, shapes of evil and danger, as men who are 
half asleep. No : you are not irresolute, nor doubt- 
ful, nor cowardly about these things. You have no 
fear of pledges and promises, and forms of promise 
in business ; no fear of bonds, and notes, and cove- 
nants, in transactions where the whole heart is in- 
terested. Many have not half enough fear of these 
things. 

But, alas ! how different from all this wakeful zeal 
and activity, and readiness, and forwardness, and 
courage, and manly decision, is the ordinary pursuit 
of religious things ! Here, alas ! men have doubts. 
They do not see things clearly. They are afraid of 
some evil lying in w 7 ait. They are afraid of forms 



248 



DISCOURSE XV. 



and covenants, and sacramental vows. They doubt 
about prayer. They doubt about public worship. 
They question whether they shall not get just as 
much good at home. Above all, they doubt about 
religious undertakings, and efforts, and charities. It 
is quite a matter of speculation, they think, whether 
any good will be done. The case is completely re- 
versed, from what it is in worldly things. A specula- 
tion, there, is a grand chance for the acquisition of 
goods. But in religious things, the noblest chance 
for infinite good to ourselves and others, is but a 
doubtful speculation. If there is adventure, or ex- 
periment, or speculation here, a thousand voices are 
raised against it ; while the w r hole business of life is 
more or less a business of adventure and risk. If it is 
proposed to send the Gospel to China, or Hindoostan; 
why it is a great way off, and the people are a strange 
people, and the success is doubtful : but there is no 
difficulty in fitting out ships to send merchandise to 
China, or Hindoostan. If it is proposed to form an 
association to relieve and instruct the poor at home, 
the subject is environed with difficulties and doubts ; 
but a company for speculation in golden mines or 
golden visions, can be formed without difficulty — and 
without prudence. 

" They that sleep" says the apostle— speaking lite 
rally — " sleep in the night." And is there not a 
spiritual night, brooding over the minds of thousands? 
There is nothing in the world so glorious as the per- 
fection of God ; there is nothing so near as his pre- 
sence. And yet how many habitually walk in the 
sense and presence of every thing, but the ever mani- 
fested and omnipresent Divinity! Eyes have they, 



DISCOURSE XV. 



249 



but they see not, and ears have they, but they hear 
not. They see all objects, but see them not as the 
tokens of his power. They hear, but they hear not 
the voice of God. They hear every thing, but those 
calls that are made upon the soul ; the calls of bless- 
ing, and trial, and temptation, and warning, and en- 
couragement, that are all around them. They mark 
every thing in the paths of life, but those directions, 
and commands, and exhortations, that constantly ad- 
dress themselves to the spiritual nature. They see 
not, at every step, duties, mercies, privileges, means 
of virtuous improvement, opportunities of usefulness, 
cares of the soul to be taken, cares of other men's 
good, and true welfare, dangers admonishing them, 
blessed hopes beckoning them onward, heaven open- 
ing to them. They do not walk in the abiding and 
the living sense of these things. 

This it would be, in some measure, to be awake to 
the soul. But what it would be altogether, our per- 
ceptions of the soul and its interests, are, perhaps, too 
dull for us to tell, or to comprehend. Well may we 
suspect that our standard of religious wakefulness and 
diligence is far too low. Well may we suspect that 
we do not yet know what it is to be awake to all the 
glorious and affecting concerns of our moral and im- 
mortal welfare ; and that if we were thus once awa- 
kened, every thing in this world would appear in a 
new light ; we should see with new eyes, we should 
apprehend with new senses, we should be aroused to an 
impression more profound and overwhelming than ever 
this outward world has made upon us. If, indeed, we 
can so strongly grasp this world ; if we can so strongly 
apprehend, and so eagerly pursue the mere forms of 



250 



DISCOURSE XV, 



things, the vanities that perish in the using, the trifles 
of a day ; with what ardour and intensity would the 
soul put forth its powers, when it once laid hold on 
realities ! If the charms of pleasure can so fascinate 
men, how would the beauties of virtue enrapture 
them ! If glittering gold can so dazzle them, how- 
would they gaze, if they saw them, upon the riches of 
holy truth, and life, and immortality ! If the most or- 
dinary good news can so delight them, what would the 
Gospel do ! If earth can win and bind all their warm 
affections and sympathies, how would heaven bear 
away their thoughts to more delightful meditations, to 
more holy friendships, to more blessed hopes, to more 
ineffable visions of beauty and beatitude, than all that 
this world ever unfolded, or offered, to its most ardent 
votaries ! Then would worldly desire, aad love, and 
zeal be more than transformed ; they would be re- 
generated to new life and power. He, upon whom 
this happy renewal of the soul should pass, would find 
that nobler energies had slept within him, than he had 
before imagined, to be a part of himself. He would 
come to feel that he had undervalued the gift of being. 
He would thank God as he never before thanked him, 
for the blessing of existence, and the promise of im- 
mortality. 

But I must check myself in the course of these re- 
flections, to consider how urgent is the call for this 
awakening from the sleep of spiritual negligence, and 
stupidity, and death. 

" Knowing the time, says the apostle, that it is now 
high time to awake out of sleep." 

In the first place, then, if we intend ever to do more 
for our spiritual welfare, it is time that we were doing 



DISCOURSE XV. 



251 



it ; it is now time, that we were doing it ; and it may be 
the only time. If we entertain the purpose of being 
more diligent in devotion, private, or public ; of keep- 
ing a stricter watch over our consciences ; of more 
effectually controlling sinful passions, and correcting 
sinful habits ; of taking a more decided stand in con- 
versation, and avowal, and practice, as Christians ; it 
is high time that the purpose was accomplished, and 
the work done. If we ever make amends for wrong, 
or recompense for injury, or restitution of dishonest 
gains ; or would tender forgiveness to our enemy, or 
heal the breaches of confidence, or the wounds that 
unkindness has given ; or would comfort the dis- 
tressed and suffering, or would send alms to the desti- 
tute, to kindle the fire on the cold hearth, or to spread 
with our abundance the table of penury ; if we would 
do any thing of this, or aught else, that our conscience 
dictates, or our hand finds to do, let us remember that 
there is no time to be lost, and that what we do, we 
must do quickly. 

In the next place, it is time, and it is high time that 
we do our duty, whatever it is, inasmuch as it is a 
matter of the most pressing concern. Our soul's 
welfare is to be secured, and it brooks not delay. The 
very errand of life is to be done, and it must not be 
put off. Happiness and misery, heaven and hell, wait 
upon our decision ; and, happiness and misery, heaven 
and hell, are not things to be trifled with ! The mes- 
sengers of Providence are around us ; blessings, afflic- 
tions, dangers, invite, admonish, threaten us ; God 
calls, good men entreat, Jesus hath lifted up to all ages 
the cry of wisdom, and warning, and agony; and 
these are arguments and appeals that endure not re- 



252 



DISCOURSE XV. 



sistance, nor insensibility. Every thing is at stake ; 
the trial of the soul is passing ; diligence only can 
safely abide it : watchfulness only can bring it to a 
happy issue ; and we must not sleep in fatal security ! 

This is no merely solemn, and at the same time, 
unmeaning language. It is a serious, unutterable re- 
ality. Look within, and see, if a trial is not there 
actually and hourly passing, between the right and 
the wrong, between the happy affections and the mis- 
erable, between the spiritual and the sensual, the 
heavenly and the worldly. What consequences are 
depending, future years, future ages, death, judgment, 
eternity, only can tell, Oh ! that some other lan- 
guage than mortals use, for mortal purposes, might 
aid us to speak forth the might, the magnificence, the 
immensity of these themes ! " Awake" — it is reason 
that calls, it is the better nature that pleads, it is a 
voice, as awful as the trump of the angel of judgment, 
that cries — " awake, O thou that sleepest, and arise 
from the dead !" 

It is high time, in the third place, because too 
much time is already lost. With some, twenty years ; 
with some, thirty, with some, forty, fifty years, have 
past ; and they have done nothing effectually for the 
soul's welfare. So many years of promises and ex- 
cuses, and evasions, but not one year, not one month 
of habitual prayers, and daily resistance of evil, and 
wakeful discharge of the great spiritual trust ! They 
were lengthened out for this very end ; and this, 
amidst all the activity of life, has been the only object 
habitually neglected. How blessed would have been 
the remembrance of these years, if they had all been 
devoted to virtue, to purity, and heaven ; if their 



DISCOURSE XV. 



253 



whole course had been a course of kind words, and 
good deeds, and holy prayers ; if their brightening 
progress had gladdened the sorrowful, and inspired 
the languid in virtue, and led a,nd helped on " the 
sacramental part of God's elect ;" if every step of 
them had brought the pilgrim of virtue and faith, 
nearer to the company of the faithful and blessed in 
heaven ! The toil, and business, and pleasure of life 
need not have paused ; but that toil, and business, 
and pleasure might have been consecrated and blessed 
by a heavenly aim. 

Can any being, claiming the attributes of reason, 
say, that, compared with this, the case of spiritual 
indifference and sloth is not gloomy? What should we 
think, if twenty years of our life, had been passed 
in blank and barren idiocy ? And when we awaked 
from that stupor and sleep of the soul, how should we 
regard the time that had thus passed? But compared 
with twenty years of growing irreligion and vice, that 
lot would be a blessing. In that case, no blame could 
attach, and no reproach would follow, and no retribu- 
tion would call the unhappy victim to its bar. Twenty 
years of sickness would be accounted a sad lpt ; and 
yet that might have saved the soul for ever. But 
twenty years of spiritual maladies, to which no heal- 
ing nor help has come ; twenty, thirty, forty years, in 
which a man has growm no better, — a common case. I 
most seriously fear — in which no holy principles of 
action have been gained, no passions subdued, no com- 
munion with God has been sought, no preparation for 
trouble and sickness and death has been made, no 
meetness for heaven has been acquired ! — truly, well 
might the Apostle say to his converts, " let the time 

22 



254 



DISCOURSE XV, 



past suffice, wherein ye have wrought the will of the 
Gentiles." Is it not — O negligent man! O sinful 
sleeper ! — is it not enough? Canst thou ask more time, 
to be thus wasted and lost? If thou canst, when will 
thy wakening be? When, — and where? If thou wilt 
not arise now from this spiritual lethargy, thy waken- 
ing may be, when to all human view it is too late ; and 
w T here the last failing voices of mercy may arouse you 
only to horror and despair! 

When and where, I say not ; but this I know, that 
every hour of this awful repose is an hour of added 
peril. It is high time to awake from this sleep, in the 
fourth place, because there is infinite danger in it. 
Sleep, if thou wilt, on the brink of a precipice ; sleep 
on the mountain's brow, with a yawning chasm be- 
neath you; sleep, on the sea-shore, when the roaring 
tide is coming in with a flood to overwhelm you ; but 
let no man sleep amidst the mountain precipices and 
chasms of this world's temptations ; let no man sleep 
amidst the w 7 helming tides of passion. Those out- 
ward dangers are but symbols of a danger internal, 
spiritual, and great, beyond the power of any compari- 
son to set forth. If you saw a fellow-being in those 
perilous situations, you would fly to his rescue ; or you 
would be struck with horror at the danger which you 
could not avert. But, if you are a negligent transgres- 
sor of God's commands, a careless offender against 
your own conscience, an easy yielder to sinful indul- 
gence, you have infinitely more reason to tremble foi 
yourself. Ruin is not more certainly in the path ol 
the devouring sea, than it is in the path and course oi 
unholy passions and sinful indulgences. 

And what a ruin is it?— not of the body but of the 



DISCOURSE XV. 



255 



soul ; not of merchandise, but of virtue ; not of gold 
and silver, but of those affections, which rightly regu- 
lated, are richer — sacred heaven ! how poorly was I 
about to speak ! — richer than gold and silver, was I 
ready to say? — nay, richer than all the suns and stars 
of the firmament. What a ruin is that which is 
found in the brand that sinful gratifications leave on 
the soul ; in the blight and curse of an envious mind ; 
in the seared and callous heart of avarice; in the 
meanness of selfish competitions; in the baseness of 
living on the world's favour; in the barrenness of an 
unsatisfied and desolated mind; in the darkness of 
a soul estranged and alienated from its Maker! We 
talk of ruin ; but there is no ruin like that : no deso- 
lation like that which enters into the chambers of 
the soul; no ruin like that which lays waste the 
spiritual temple ; no scourge like that which passes 
over the immortal nature. All misery, but that 
which sin causes, is in its nature, occasional, tem- 
porary, transient; it does not belong to the mind, 
but only to its condition. But that misery which 
sin creates becomes a part of the soul ; it will cling 
to the mind, till the last trace of evil habit ? is worn 
away by repentance. 

It is high time to awake, then, because now is the 
only time we may have for it ; because a matter of in- 
finite weight presses ; because, too much time has 
been lost ; and because every added moment of spirit- 
ual sloth is a moment of added peril. 

Once more, let us be admonished that it is high 
time to awake, by the tokens of the closing year. 
The season which we are approaching, is a time of 
congratulations and kind tokens of remembrance ; 



256 



DISCOURSE XV. 



and be it so. But let the great admonition of the 
season sink deeper into our minds, than congratula- 
tions, and become an abiding memorial within us, 
more precious than all the offerings of friendship. 
Let the compliments of the season be paid, and let 
them pass, as they will pass; but so let not the 
solemn mementos of the coming season pass away 
from us. These years, Christian brethren, are hur- 
rying us away. I say not this gloomily, nor to com- 
municate gloom, but to awaken from indifference, 
and arouse to exertion. What shall startle us from 
our sloth and negligence, if these epochs of our 
hasting life shall not ? Most of us, it may be, ima- 
gine that a time will come when we shall be more 
zealous, and earnest, and decided. But when shall 
it once be? and what shall awaken us to it, if not 
the remembrance of lost time, and the present and 
urgent tokens of its hasty flight ? Well saith the poet, 

"It is the signal that demands despatch ; 
How much is to be done ! My hopes and fears 
Start up alarmed ; and o'er life's narrow verge, 
Look down — on what ? A fathomless abyss, 
A dread eternity, how surely mine I" 

" Seize, then, the present moments ; 
For be assured, they all are messengers ; 
And though their flight be silent, and their paths trackless 
As the winged couriers of the air, 
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly. 
Because, though stationed on the important watch, 
Thou like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, 
Did'st let them pass, unnoticed, unimproved. 
And know, for that thou slumberest on the guard, 
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar, 
For every fugitive. 

Then stay the present instant, - . - - . 
Imprint the mark of wisdom on its wings. 
Oh ! let it not elude thy grasp, but like 
The good old patriarch upon record, 
Hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless thee.*' 



257 



DISCOURSE XVI. 

COMPASSION FOR THE SINFUL. 



MARK 3. 5. And when he had looked round about him 

WITH ANGER, BEING GRIEVED FOR THE HARDNESS OF THEIR 
HEARTS, HE SAID UNTO THE MAN, STRETCH FORTH THY 
HAND. 

That part of this passage, only, which relates to 
the moral temper of our Saviour, is proposed for your 
present meditations. It is, in other words, and espe- 
cially, the compassion of Jesus. 

In reading the first clause of the sentence — he 
"looked round about him with anger" — I suppose 
that many may have felt an emotion, a thrill almost, 
of pain and doubt; they have felt that these words, by 
themselves, and in their simple meaning, w T ere in pain- 
ful contrast with all their ideas of our Saviour's meek- 
ness and patience; they have been ready to doubt 
whether the words could have been correctly trans- 
lated. But how entirely and delightfully is the mind 
relieved by the words that follow — " being grieved for 
the hardness of their hearts !" He was indignant as 
he looked around him, and witnessed the bitter enmity 
and the base hypocrisy of the Jews ; but his indigna- 
tion instantly softened into pity ; he was grieved at the 
hardness of their hearts. 

22* 



258 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



This is one instance of that sublime moral harmony, 
that union in which the most opposite qualities met 
and mingled, that so entirely singles out from all other 
models, the character of our heavenly Teacher and 
Master. We recognise the same spirit with that which 
was so pathetically manifested, in his appeal to Jeru- 
salem. " O Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! — thou that killest 
the prophets and stonest them that are sent to thee," — 
here is the tone of indignation and reproach; but 
mark, how instantly it is redeemed from the ordinary 
character of those sentiments — " thou that killest the 
prophets and stonest them that are sent unto thee ; 
how often would I have gathered thy children even as 
a hen gathereth her brood under her wing, but ye 
would not !" 

The spirit with which we should regard the faults 
and sins of mankind is nearly a neglected subject in 
morals ; and it had been well for moral reformers and 
preachers of righteousness, if they had more thoroughly 
considered it. It is moreover, a very practical subject 
to all men. For we are constantly brought into contact 
with the faults and transgressions of mankind; every 
day offers, from this cause, some annoyance to our 
feelings, or some injury to our interests; every news- 
paper, that is taken in our hand, is burthened with the 
recital of crimes— robberies, murders, piracies, wars. 
Indeed, this constant experience of injustice or exas- 
peration in some or other of their forms, and this ex- 
tensive observation of human wickedness, are a part 
of our moral discipline; and it becomes us, to consider 
how we should meet it, and be made better by other 
men's faults. It is, indeed, in its mildest form, a sad 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



259 



and grievous discipline, from which, no one should be 
willing to come out, unprofited. 

There is another general observation applicable to 
this subject. As we advance in our moral discrimina- 
tions, we shall always find that things before indiffer- 
ent, become interesting; and things distant, it may be 
added, become near. A war, for instance, breaks out 
between distant nations. A man may say — what is 
that to me ? What is the case of the French and the 
Austrians, of the Russians and the Poles, to me ? I 
answer, it is much to you. For ever} 7 time you read 
an account of a battle; every time you read of the 
prowess of armies, of blood and carnage, of blazing 
battlements and groaning hospitals, you have certain 
feelings; and they are marked with a strong moral 
complexion. You are pleased or pained ; you exult or 
you regret; or you are indifferent; and to any refined 
moral sensibility, these states of mind will not be un- 
important. Or, an extensive fraud in some public 
institution, although it may not touch you in your in- 
terests, does touch you in your feelings ; and therefore, 
does concern, though not your pecuniary, yet, your 
moral welfare. And while others think that they have 
nothing to do but with words, nothing to do but to 
talk, and speculate, and wonder, and rail ; a thoughtful 
man will feel that he has much to do with his own 
heart. Or, when the poor miserable victim of vice, 
the shattered wreck of a man. appears before the pub- 
lic eye, he may be contemplated with laughter or 
scorn ; but from a man, who breathes the spirit of the 
Christian Master, that spectacle will draw forth deeper 
sentiments. It is the form of sacred humanity that is 
before him; it is an erring fellow-being; it is a deso- 



260 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



late, forlorn, forsaken soul ; and the thoughts of good 
men, that gather around that poor wretch, will be far 
deeper than those of indifference or scorn. And in 
fine, all human offences, — that whole system of dis- 
honesty, evasion, circumventing, forbidden indulgence 
and intriguing ambition, in which men are struggling 
together, will often be looked upon, by a thoughtful 
observer, not merely as the sphere of mean toils and 
strifes, but as the mighty and, to a Christian eye, the 
solemn conflict of minds immortal, for ends vast and 
momentous as their own being. Sad and unworthy 
strife indeed ! and let it be viewed with indignation ; 
but let that indignation too, melt into pity. 

Such, indeed, is the spirit recommended in our text 
—a spirit of indignation at human faults and follies, 
but a spirit too, which leans to pity ; a feeling which 
although it begins often with indignation, always, by 
the aids of reflection and piety, ends in pity. 

There is a portion of indignation in the right tem- 
per. The right feeling is not a good natured easiness 
at the transgressions of men, nor a worldly indiffer- 
ence, nor a falsely philosophic coldness, that puts on 
an air of reasoning and says, " it must be so," and 
" men were made so," and " this is what we must ex- 
pect." Neither is it a worldly laxity of conscience, 
that accounts every thing well, that passes under the 
seal of public opinion. It is a decided and strong moral 
feeling, that ought to be awakened by human wicked- 
ness. It is indignation. 

But, then, it is not a harsh and cruel feeling. It is 
not peevishness nor irritation. It is not hasty nor 
angry reproach. It is not a feeling that delights in 
denunciation. No ; but the words of warning fall, as 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



261 



they did from the lips of Jesus, mingled with lamen- 
tation. Or, the words of reproach are uttered as they 
were by Paul, when he told the Philippians, and told 
them even weeping, that some among them, were ene- 
mies of the cross of Christ. 

There are other mistakes which we are liable to 
commit, and other wrong feelings, w r hich we are prone 
to cherish, towards the erring and guilty. 

Good men — shall I say it ? — are too proud of their 
goodness. Here are you, a respectable individual in 
society. Dishonour comes not near you. Your coun- 
tenance has weight and influence. Your robe is un- 
stained. The poisonous breath of calumny has never 
been breathed upon your fair name. Ah ! how easy 
is it to look down w r ith scorn upon the poor, degraded 
offender ; to pass by him w T ith a lofty step ; to draw 
up the folds of your garment around you, that it may 
not be soiled by his touch ! Yet the great Master of 
virtue did not so : but he descended to familiar inter- 
course with publicans and sinners. 

There is a feeling, I say, not only of scorn, but of 
triumph, often springing up from the survey of other 
men's faults. Many seem to think themselves better, 
for all the sins they can detect in others. And when 
they are going over w r ith the catalogue of their neigh- 
bour's unhappy derelictions of temper, or conduct, 
there is often, amidst much apparent concern, a se- 
cret exultation, that poisons and blasts all their pre- 
tensions to wisdom and moderation, and their claims 
even to virtue itself. Nay, this feeling goes so far, 
that men take actual pleasure in the sins of others. It 
is not the corrupt man, only ; it is not the seducer into 
the path of evil only, that does this ; but it is every 



262 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



man, whose thoughts are often employed in agreeable 
comparisons of his virtues, with the faults of his neigh- 
bour. 

The power over men's faults, which is lost by a 
harsh or haughty treatment of them, would of itself, 
form a great subject ; and one that much needs to be 
commended to all those who would exert any moral 
influence over their fellow-beings. The power of gen- 
tleness, the subduing influence of pity, the might of 
love, the control of mildness over passion, the com- 
manding majesty of that perfect character which 
mingles grave displeasure with grief and pity for the 
offender — -these things have been too little seen in the 
world. I believe that our pulpits, and our tribunals 
of justice, and parental authority among us, must put 
on a new aspect, before they will appear in all their 
dignity, their venerableness, their power, and beauty. 
We scarcely know, as yet, what we might do with 
men's passions and vices. They are commonly repu- 
ted, and some of them in particular, to be untameable, 
incorrigible, and fated to procure the ruin of their 
victims ; and they are in part made so, by our wrong 
treatment of them. The human heart cannot yield 
to such an influence as we too often endeavour to 
exert upon it. It was not made to bow willingly 
to what is merely human ; at least, not to what is in- 
firm and wrong in human nature. If it yields to us, 
it must yield to what is divine in us. The wicked- 
ness of my neighbour cannot submit to my wicked- 
ness ; his sensuality, for instance, cannot submit to 
my anger against his vices. My faults are not the 
instruments that are to correct his faults. And it is 
hence, that impatient reformers, and denouncing 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



263 



preachers, and hasty reprovers, and angry parents, 
and irritable relatives, so often fail in their several 
departments, to reclaim the erring. 

I would, therefore, remind them that they have a 
new lesson to learn, from the compassion of Jesus ; 
and that is, while they permit in themselves the live- 
liest sensibility to the sins of men, to mingle with it 
the deepest commiseration for them. 

I. And they may learn this lesson — they may find 
it enforced rather, first, by considering what it is, that 
their feelings and thoughts are exercised about. 

It is sin. It is combined guilt and misery. It is 
the supreme evil. Whence shall we gather compari- 
sons to set it forth ? Shall we name sickness 1 — Sick- 
ness belongs to the body : the corruptible and perish- 
able body. Pain 1 — physical pain ? The body is its 
instrument, and end. Loss, disappointment ? They 
are worldly accidents? Dishonour? It is, compar- 
atively a shade upon a name. But a moral offence 
possesses all these characters, and it attaches them 
all to the soul. It is sickness : it is pain ; it is loss ; it 
is dishonour, in the immortal part. It is guilt : and 
it is misery added to guilt. It is calamity in itself: 
and it brings upon itself in addition the calamity of 
God's displeasure, and the abhorrence of all righteous 
beings, and the soul's own abhorrence. If you have 
to deal with this evil, deal faithfully, but patiently, and 
tenderly with it. This is no matter for petty provo- 
cation, nor for personal strife, nor for selfish irritation. 

Speak kindly to your erring brother. God pities 
him ; Christ has died for him ; Providence waits for 
him ; the mercy of heaven yearns towards him ; and 
the spirits of heaven are ready to welcome him back 



264 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



with joy. Let your voice be in unison with all those 
powers that God is using for his recovery. 

Parent ! speak gently to your offending child. This 
trait of parental duty should be deeply pondered. A 
tone of grave rebuke should, indeed, be sometimes 
used: perhaps, occasion may require that it should be 
often used ; but the tone of peevish complaint and 
anger, never. There is a different language ; and 
how much more powerful ! "Ah ! my child !" might 
one say, in the manner, if not in language — "my 
child! what injury is all this doing you? — this pas- 
sion, this violence, or this vice, what a bitter cup is it 
preparing for you !" This language, this tone from 
the grave wisdom of a father, or the tender anxiety 
of a mother, might have saved some whom peevish- 
ness and provocation have driven farther and deeper 
into the ways of transgression. 

But let us put the strongest case. Your neighbour 
has done you grievous wrong. And he has the face 
to tell you so ; and to exult in his dishonesty. What 
man is there whose countenance would not be flushed 
with momentaiy indignation, at being so confronted 
with one that had injured him, and that gloried in the 
injury ! And let us concede thus much to the weak- 
ness of nature, or even to the first impulse of virtue. 
But the next feeling should be unfeigned regret and 
pity. Yes, the man who stands before you, triumph- 
ing in a prosperous fraud, and palpable wrong, is the 
most pitiable of human beings. He has done himself 
a deeper, a far deeper injury, than he has done to you. 
It is the inflicter of wrong, not the sufferer, whom 
God beholds with mingled displeasure and compas- 
sion ; and his judgment should be your law. Where 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



265 



amidst the benedictions of the Holy Mount is there 
one for this man ? But upon the merciful — the peace- 
makers — the persecuted — they are poured out freely ; 
these are the sacred names, upon which the spirit 
and blessing of Jesus descend, 

II. In the next place, it may temper the warmth of 
our indignation against sin, and soften it into pity ; it 
may well bring us, indeed, to imitate the compassion 
of Jesus, for us to reflect, that what others are, and 
however bad, we, in other circumstances, might have 
been as they are. 

We are all men of like passions, propensities, ex- 
posures. There are elements in us all, which might 
have been perverted, through the successive processes 
of moral deterioration, to the worst of crimes. The 
wretch whom the execration of the thronging crowd 
pursues to the scaffold or the gibbet, is not worse than 
any one of that multitude might have become, in similar 
circumstances. He is to be condemned, indeed ; but 
how much he is to be pitied, let his burning passions, 
his consuming remorse, his pallid cheek, his sinking 
head, the mingled apathy and agony of his apprehen- 
sions — let these tell. 

I feel that I am speaking of a case that is fully 
practical. There is a vindictive feeling in society, to- 
wards convicted and capital offenders, towards those 
who are doomed to abide the awful severity of the law, 
that does not become the frail and the sinful. I do not 
adopt the unqualified language, that it is nothing but 
the grace of God that saves us from being as bad, as 
the worst of criminals. But it is certain that we owe 
much to the good providence of God, ordaining for us 
a lot more favourable to virtue. It is certain that we 

23 



266 



DISCOURSE XVI, 



all had that within us, that might have been pushed ta 
the same excess. And therefore, a silent pity and sor- 
row for the victim, should mingle with our detestation 
of the crime. 

The very pirate, that dyes the ocean-wave with the 
blood of his feilow-beings ; that meets with his defence- 
less victim in some lonely sea where no cry for help 
can be heard, and plunges his dagger to the heart 
which is pleading for life, — which is calling upon him 
by all the names of kindred, of children and home, to 
spare — yes, the very pirate is such a man, as you or I, 
might have been. Orphanage in childhood ; an un- 
friended youth; an evil companion; a resort to sinful 
pleasure; familiarity with vice; a scorned and blighted 
name ; seared and crushed affections ; desperate for- 
tunes — these are steps that might have led any one 
among us, to unfurl upon the high seas the bloody flag 
of universal defiance ; to have waged war with our 
kind ; to have put on the terrific attributes, to have 
done the dreadful deeds, and to have died, the awful 
death of the ocean robber. How many affecting re- 
lationships of humanity plead with us to pity him! 
That head, that is doomed to pay the price of blood, 
once rested upon a mother's bosom. The hand that 
did that accursed work, and shall soon be stretched, 
cold and nerveless, in the felon's grave, was once 
taken and cherished by a father's hand, and led in the 
ways of sportive childhood and innocent pleasure. 
The dreaded monster of crime, has once been the ob- 
ject of sisterly love, and all domestic endearment. 
Pity him, then. Pity his blighted hope, and his crushed 
heart. It is a wholesome sensibility. It is reasonable ; it 
is meet for frail and sinning creatures like us to cherish* 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



267 



It foregoes no moral discrimination. It feels the crime ; 
but feels it as a weak, tempted, and rescued creature 
should. It imitates the great Master ; and looks with 
indignation upon the offender, and yet is grieved for 
him. 

III. In the last place, I would set forth the intrinsic 
worth and greatness of this disposition as a reason for 
cherishing it. This rank does the virtue of compas- 
sion hold in the character of our Saviour. 

How superior is the man of forbearance and gentle- 
ness to every other man, in the collisions of society! 
He is the real conqueror: the conqueror of himself; 
but that is not all ; he conquers others, There is no 
dominion in the social world like this. It is a dominion 
which makes not slaves, but freemen ; which levies 
no tribute but of gratitude ; whose only monuments 
are those of virtuous example. 

No man may claim much merit, merely for being 
indignant at the faults and sins of those around him. 
It is better than indifference, better than no feeling; 
but it is only the beginning and youth of virtue. The 
youthful, untutored, unsubdued mind is only angry with 
sin ; and thinks it does well to be angry. But when 
more reflection comes, and a deeper consciousness of 
personal deficiencies; and a more entire subjection to 
the meek and compassionate spirit of Jesus Christ is 
wrought out in the mind, a new character begins to 
develop itself. Harsh words, borne upon the breath 
of a hasty temper, do not ruffle the soul as they once 
did. Reproof is received, with meekness and in silence. 
The tongue is not ever ready, as if it were an instru- 
ment made to ward off reproach. The peace of the 
goul does not stand in the opinion of others. Faults 



268 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



are estimated with forbearance. Mature and fixed vir- 
tue is too high and strong to think of building itself up, 
like a doubtful reputation, upon surrounding deficien- 
cies. Sins are more immediately and habitually con- 
nected with the sufferings they must occasion ; and 
therefore they more surely awaken pity. The man 
of advancing piety and virtue is growing in the con- 
viction, indeed, that the only real, essential, immiti- 
gable evil is sin. He mourns over it in himself; he 
mourns over it in others. It is the root of bitterness 
in the field of life. It is the foe with which he is hold- 
ing the long, and often disheartening conflict. It is 
the cloud upon the face of nature. That cloud over- 
spreads his neighbour, with himself. And he pities, 
from his inmost soul, all who walk beneath it a 

Patience with the erring and offending, is one of the 
loftiest of all the forms of character, " Compassion 
for souls," though the phrase is often used in a cant and 
technical manner, ought to be a great and ennobling 
sentiment. Compassion, indeed, for souls — how should 
it transcend all other compassion! Look over the 
world, and say — where are its sufferings? In the dis- 
eased body, in the broken limb, in the wounded and 
bruised organs of sense? In the desolate dwelling of 
poverty — in hunger, and cold and nakedness? Yes, 
suffering is there ; and Providence has put a tongue in 
every suffering member of the human frame, to plead 
its cause. But enter into the soul— pass through these 
outworks, and enter the very seat of power; and what 
things are there — uttering no sound perhaps, breath- 
ing no complaint— but what things are there to move 
compassion? Wounded and bruised affections, blighted 
capacities, broken and defeated hopes; desolation 



DISCOURSE XVI. 



269 



solitariness, silence, sorrow, anguish — and sin, the 
cause and consummation of all the deepest miseries of 
an afflicted life. If the surgeon's knife should cut the 
very heart, it would hardly inflict a sharper pang than 
anger, envy, smiting shame, and avenging remorse. 
Yet, happiness is near that heart; happiness, the 
breath of infinite goodness, the blessed voice of mercy, 
is all around it; and it is all madly shunned. Eternal 
happiness is offered to it; and it rejects the offer. It 
goes on, and on, through life, inwardly burthened, groan- 
ing in secret, bleeding, weltering in its passions; but 
it will not seek the true relief. Its wounds are without 
cause ; its sufferings without recompense ; its life with- 
out true comfort ; and its end without hope, Com- 
passion, indeed, for souls! who may not justly feel it 
for others, and for his own? 

So Jesus looked upon the world — save that he had 
no compassion to feel for himself ; and so much the 
more touching was his compassion for us. From the 
sublime height of his own immaculate purity, he looked 
down upon a sinful, and degraded, and afflicted race. 
" Weep not for me," he said, " but weep for yourselves 
and your children." So Jesus looked upon the world, 
and pitied it. He taught us, that we might be wise : 
he was poor that we might be rich ; he suffered that 
we might be happy ; he wept that we might rejoice ; 
he died — he died the accursed death of the cross, that 
we might live — live for ever. 

33* 



270 



DISCOURSE XVII. 

god's love; the chief restraint from sin, and 
resource in sorrow. 



1 JOHN, 4. 16. God is love. 

It was a saying of Plato, that "the soul is mere 
darkness, till it is illuminated with the knowledge of 
God." What Plato said of the soul, is true of every- 
thing. Every thing is dark, till the light of God's per- 
fection shines upon it. That "God is love," is the 
great central truth, that gives brightness to every other 
truth. Not only the moral system, but nature, and 
the science of nature, would be dark without that 
truth. I am persuaded, it might be shown, that it is 
the great, essential principle, which lies at the founda- 
tion of all interesting knowledge. It may not be always 
distinctly observed by the philosopher; but how could 
he proceed in those investigations that are leading him 
through all the labyrinths of nature, if it were not for 
the conviction secretly working within him, that all is 
right, that all is well ! How could he have the heart 
to pursue his way, as he is penetrating into the mys- 
teries, whether of rolling worlds or of vegetating atoms, 
if he felt that the system he was exploring, was a sys- 
tem of boundless malevolence ! He would stand aghast 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



271 



and powerless, at that thought. It would spread a 
shadow, darker than universal eclipse, over the splen- 
dour of heaven. It would endow every particle of 
earth with a principle of malignity, too awful for the 
hardiest philosophic scrutiny ! 

The Scriptures assign the same pre-eminence to the 
doctrine of divine goodness, which it holds in nature 
and philosophy. It is never said, in Scripture, that 
God is greatness, or power, or knowledge: but with a 
comprehensive and affecting emphasis, it is written 
that God is love; not that he is lovely, not that he is 
good, not that he is benevolent, merely — that would be 
too abstract for the great, vital, life-giving truth — 
but it is written, I repeat, that, God is love! 

And it is not of this truth as an abstract truth, my 
friends, that I propose now to speak. I wish to con- 
sider chiefly its applications ; and especially its applica- 
tions to two great conditions of human life ; to the 
conditions of temptation, and sorrow. Affliction, we 
know, is sometimes addressed with worldly consola- 
tions; and sin is often assailed with denunciation and 
alarm ; yet for both alike, and for all that makes up 
the mingled conflict and sorrow and hope of life, it 
seems to me that a deep and affectionate trust in the 
love of God, is the only powerful, sustaining, and con- 
trolling principle. 

Let me say again — an affectionate trust ; the faith, 
in other words, that works by love. It is not a cold, 
speculative, theological faith, that can prepare us to 
meet the discipline of life. It is the confidence of love 
only that can carry us through. Love only can under- 
stand love. This only can enable us to say 4i we have 
known and believed the love, that God hath to us." 



272 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



We profess to believe in God ; to believe in the divine 
perfection. But, I say, my brethren, that we do not 
properly know what we believe in, without love 
to it. Love only can understand love. Love only 
can give to faith in divine love, its proper cha- 
racter; and especially that character of assurance 
and strength, which will enable us to meet, unshaken 
and unfaltering, the temptations and trials of life. 

The principle that is to meet exigencies like these, 
that is to hold the long conflict with sin and sorrow, 
that is to sustain triumphantly the burthen of this 
mortal experience, must be intelligent, active, pene- 
trating, and powerful. For, the problem of this life, 
my brethren, is not readily, nor easily to be solved. 
I know that there is light upon it; welcome light. But 
it cannot be carried into the mazes of human experi- 
ence, it cannot illuminate what is dark, and clear up 
what is difficult, without much reflection — and reflec- 
tion upon what, if not upon the character of the 
Ordainer of this lot? — without much reflection. I re- 
peat, and care, every way, to the direction and posture 
of our own minds. It was not intended that our faith 
should be a passive principle ; that all should be plain 
and easy to it; that moral light should fall upon our 
path, as clear, obvious and bright as sunshine. It 
pleases God to try the reliance of his earthly children. 
He would have their trust in him to be a nobler act 
than mere vision could be. He would have their faith 
grow and strengthen by severe exercise. He would 
say to them at last, not only "well done, good! — but, 
"well done, faithful! — enter ye into the joys of your 
Lord: enter into joys, made dear by sorrow, made 
bright, by the darkness you have experienced, made 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



273 



noble and glorious, by the trying of your faith which 
is more precious than of gold." 

I said, that the problem of this life is not readily nor 
easily to be solved. I can conceive that this may be 
an unmeaning declaration, to those who have not 
thought much of life, to those, whose lot has been easy, 
and whose minds have partaken of the easiness of 
their lot. But there are those, to whom the visitation 
of life, to whom the visitation of thought and feeling, 
has been a different thing. I can believe that there are 
some to whom I speak, whose minds have been haunt- 
ed from their very childhood, with that mournful and 
touching inquiry which we used to read in our early 
lessons, "child of mortality! whence comest thou?" 
Man is, indeed, the child of a frail, changing, mortal 
lot; and yet the creature of an immortal hope. We 
are ready to ask such a being, at whom we must won- 
der as it seems to me, whence earnest thou, and 
for what end? Didst thou come, frail being! from the 
source of strength and wisdom and goodness ? Why 
then, so feeble, so unwise, so unworthy? Why art thou 
here, and such as thou art — so strong in grief, and so 
weak in fortitude ! so boundless in aspiration, so poor 
in possession ! Why art thou here ? — with this strangely 
mingled being; so glad and so sorrowful; so earthly 
and so heavenly; so in love with life, and so weary of 
it; so eagerly clinging to life, and yet borne away by a 
sighing breath of the evening air ! Whence, and where- 
fore, frail man! art thou such an one? All else is 
well; but with thee all is not well. The world is fair 
around thee; the bright and blessed sun shineth on 
thee; the green and flowery fields spread far, and 
cheer thine eye, and invite thy footstep ; the groves 



274 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



are full of melody; ten thousand happy creatures range 
freely through all the paths of nature; but thou art not 
satisfied as they are — thou art not happy — thou art not 
provided for as they are : earth has no coverts for thy 
sheltering; thou must toil, thou must build houses, and 
gather defences for thy frailty; and in the sweat ot 
thy brow, must thou eat thy bread. And when all 
is done, thou must die ; and thou knowest it. Death, 
strange visitant, is ever approaching to meet thee; 
death, dark gate of mystery, is ever the termination 
of thy path ! 

But, my brethren, is this all ? To live, to toil, to 
struggle, to suffer, to sorrow, to die — is this all? No, 
it is not all ; but it is God's love, and the revelation of 
God's love in the promise of immortality, only, that can 
assure us that there is more. And so necessary do 
these seem to me, to bear up the thinking, feeling, suf- 
fering, hoping, inquiring mind ; so necessary is it, that 
a voice of God should speak to the creatures of this 
earthly discipline, — necessary as that a parental voice 
should be ready and near to hush the cry of infancy, 
— that instead of stumbling at marvels and miracles, 
at interpositions and teachings, I confess, I have some- 
times wondered that there were not more of them. I 
have wondered that the manifestations of God, did 
not oftener appear in the blazing bush, and the cloud* 
capt mountain. I have wondered that the curtain of 
mystery, that hides the other world, were not some- 
times lifted up ; that the cherubim of mercy and of 
hope were not sometimes throned on the clouds o{ 
the eventide; that the bright and silent stars, did 
not sometimes break the deep stillness that reigns 
among them, with the scarcely fabled music of their 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



275 



spheres; that the rich flood of morning light, as it 
bathes the earth in love, did not utter voices from 
its throne of heavenly splendour, to proclaim the good- 
ness of God. No, I wonder not at marvels and 
miracles. That scene on the Mount of transfigura- 
tion—Moses and Elias talking with our Saviour- 
seems to me, so far from being strange and incredi- 
ble, to meet a want of the mind ; and I only wonder, 
if I may venture to say so, that it is not sometimes 
repeated. 

Yet w T hy should I say this ? The love of God to us, 
is sure ; and it is a sufficient assurance. Trust in him 
is a sustaining principle ; and it is sufficient strength. 
There is another state of being for us — perish all 
reason and all faith ! if it is not so — there is another 
state of being for us ; and though the eye hath not seen 
it, and the ear hath caught no sound from its wide 
realm, the great promise and hope are sufficient. 

I say, the love of God is sure. He does love the 
moral beings whom he has made in his image ; loves 
them, I doubt not, in their fears and doubtings and 
struggles and sorrows; loves them, I believe, even in 
their sins, nay, and has commended his love to them in 
this very character — has commended his love to them, 
in that while they were yet sinners, Christ died for 
them. 

Can you doubt whether man is the object of God's 
love? Look at the feeble insect tribes, sporting in 
the beams of life, happy in their hour, perishing but 
to give life to others. Is he not a kind Being, who 
made even these? Is it not the breath of love, in which 
even they live ? Look at all the ranks and orders of 
irrational creatures, that inhabit the fields, the groves, 



276 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



the mountains, the living streams of ocean. Look at 
the free and fleet rangers of the forest. Go thou, and 
unfold the inward frame of such an one : trace everv 
part of the wonderful mechanism ; mark every sinew ; 
follow the courses of its life-blood ; see every skilful 
and exquisite adaptation for sustenance, for strength, 
for speed, for beauty. Is not this the workmanship of 
goodness? Could any but a kind and gracious Being 
have done this? "Ask, now, of the beasts, says Job, 
and they shall teach thee ; and the fowls of the air, and 
they shall tell thee ; or speak to the earth, and it shall 
teach thee ; and the fishes of the sea shall declare 
unto thee." 

But turn, now, from all these, and look — yes, look 
at one human heart. How infinite the difference ! 
The human heart — say w T hat we will of it, let the 
cynic or the skeptic say what he will — but what a 
concentration of energies, what a gathering up of 
mighty thoughts, what a home of dear and gentle af- 
fections, w r hat a deep fountain of tears and sorrows, 
is there ! What strugglings are pent up within its 
narrow enclosure ; what mighty powers sleep within 
its folding bosom ; what images of the grand, the god- 
like, the indefinite, the eternal, lie in its unfathomable 
depths ! Doth not the Maker of that heart regard it 
with kindness ? Doth he not pity a being that can 
sorrow ? Doth he not love a being whom he hath 
made capable of love— of all its yearning, of all its 
tenderness ? Doth he not care for a being, whom he 
hath made capable of improving for ever ? 

Assuredly, if nature speaks truth, if revelation utters 
wisdom, he does love his rational offspring. How 
strong is the language of that revelation! "Can a mo- 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



277 



ther forget her child ? Yea, she may forget, yet will 
not I forget thee." 

Let this, then, be settled in every heart as one of 
the great convictions of life ; let it be taken to the 
soul as a part of the armour of God, to defend it 
against this world's temptations and calamities. We 
may not all, or we may not always feel the need of 
it ; but we do all need it, and we need it always. 
Always, I say : for we are always exposed to sin, 
and we are always exposed to sorow. Let us look 
at these conditions of human life for a few moments, 
to see how the apprehension of God's love to us is 
fitted to restrain us in the one case, and to comfort us 
in the other. 

Nothing would be so effectual to restrain us from 
sin, if we felt it, as the love of God to us ; nothing 
would be so effectual to recall us from our wanderings. 
It is a lofty conviction, of which I speak, my brethren, 
and not the ordinary and dull acknowledgment, the 
mere theological inference, that God is good. Let 
any one feel that God is as truly good to him, as truly 
loves him, is as really interested for his welfare, as his 
father, or his most devoted friend ; that even when he 
is rebellious and disobedient, the good and blessed 
God pities him, and pleads with him to return, pleads 
with him even through the sufferings of Christ, his 
Son ; let him feel that the kind and gracious Creator 
has fashioned that wonderful but abused mind within 
him, called forth those sweet, but neglected affections, 
provided dear objects for them, given him home, 
given him friends, showered mercies upon him; let 
him thus feel how ungenerous and ungrateful is the 
course of sin and vice ; and surely all this, if any 

24 



278 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



thing can, will touch him with conviction, and move 
him to repentance. Let it be so, that all other mo- 
tives have failed ; but who of us, if he rightly saw it, 
could lift his hand against that which is all love ? 
Who of us, if he felt that love to him, and to all around 
him — who could be selfish, contemptuous, haughty, or 
hard-hearted towards his brother ? Who of us, if he 
saw all the gifts of life to be the sacred gifts of that 
love, could abuse them to purposes of selfish ambition, 
or vicious indulgence ? — — The spirit of the sinner, 
the spirit of sin, I mean, so far as it goes, is a reck- 
less spirit. The offender cares not, very much in 
proportion as he feels that nobody cares for him. He 
hardens himself against every thing, the more, be- 

c J o 7 7 

cause he supposes that every thing is hardened 
against him. And when he goes to the worst ex- 
cesses in vice, the manifest scorn of his fellow-crea- 
tures is the last influence that steels his heart against 
every better feeling. And yet even then, there is 
sometimes left one thought, that moves him to tears. 
It is the thought of his mother, dwelling alone, per- 
haps, in his far distant and forsaken home : it is the 
thought of his mother, who sighs in secret places for 
him ; who still mingles his outcast name, with every 
evening prayer, saying, " Oh ! restore my poor child !" 
But let him remember, that even if his mother should 
forget, God does not forget him ; does not forsake 
him ; does not withdraw all his mercies from him 
His friends may withdraw themselves ; he may have- 
no earthly bosom to lean upon ! — but the elements em 
bosom him around ; the air breathes upon him a 
breath of kindness ; the sun shines beneficently upon 
him ; the page of mercy is spread for him ; and it is 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



279 



written over with invitations and promises ; it says, 
in accents that might break a heart of stone, " turn 
thou ! turn, thou forsaken one ! for why wilt thou die?" 

So effectual, my brethren, did we rightly consider 
it, might be the love of God to restrain us from sin, 
and recall us to virtue and piety. 

Equally might it avail, and equally indispensable is 
it, to comfort us in affliction. I have already spoken 
of the afflictions of life, and need not repeat what I 
then said. Suffice it, that every heart knows what it 
has to suffer, and to struggle with. But one thing I 
am sure of, that that heart can find no repose but in 
a firm trust in the infinite love of God. I speak now 
for a reasonable mind, for one that is not willing to 
suffer blindly as a brute suffers, for one that does not 
find it enough to conclude that it must suffer and can- 
not help it. I speak for one whom sorrow has aroused 
to consider the great questions, wherefore he is made ? 
and why he is made to suffer ; and I am sure that 
such an one must behold goodness enthroned and 
reigning over all the events of time and the destinies 
of eternity ; or for his mind, there is no friend nor 
helper in the universe. Ah ! there are questions, 
which nothing can answer, but God's love ; which 
nothing can meet, but God's promise ; which nothing 
can calm, but a perfect trust in his goodness. Speak 
to the void darkness of affliction, " the first dark day of 
nothingness" after trouble has come ; speak to life, 
through all its stages and fortunes, from oftentimes 
suffering infancy to trembling age ; speak to this 
crowded world of events, accidents, and vicissitudes; 
ay, or speak thou to the inward world of the heart, 
with all its strifes, its sinkings, its misgivings, its re- 



280 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



membrancesjits strange visitings of long gone thoughts, 

" Touching the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound,'* 

and none of these can answer us; we call as vainly 
upon them, as the priests of Baal upon their god. 
There is shadow and mystery upon all the creation, 
till we see God in it; there is trouble and fear, till w r e 
see God's love in it. 

But give me that assurance ; and though there are 
many things which I know not, many things which I 
cannot explain nor understand, yet I can consent not 
to know them. Enough, enough to know, that God 
is good, and what he does is right. This known ; and 
the works of creation, the changes of life, the destinies 
of eternity, are all spread before us, as the dispensa- 
tions and counsels of infinite love. This known ; and 
then we know, that the love of God is working to 
issues, like itself, beyond all thought and imagination, 
good and glorious ; and that the only reason why we 
understand it not, is, that it is too glorious for us to 
understand. This known : and what then do we say? 
God's love taketh care for all— nothing is neglected — 
God's love watcheth over all, provideth for all, maketh 
wise adaptations for all ; for age, for infancy, for ma- 
turity, for childhood in every scene of this, or another 
life : for want, for weakness, for joy, and for sorrow, 
and even for sin ; so that even the wrath of man shall 
praise the goodness of God. All is good ; all is well ; 
all is right ; and shall be for ever. This, Oh ! this is 
an inheritance, and a refuge, and a rest for the mind, 
from which the convulsions of worlds cannot shake it. 

In what an aspect does this conviction present the 
scenes of eternity ? We are placed here in a state of 
imperfection and trial, and much that seems like mys- 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



281 



tery and mischance. Bat what shall the future be, if 
the light of God's goodness is to shine through its 
ages ? I answer, it shall be all bright disclosure, full 
consummation, blessed recompense. We shall doubt- 
less see, what we can now only believe. The cloud 
will be lifted up, and will unveil — eternity ! And what 
an eternity ! All brightness ; all beatitude ; one un- 
clouded vision ; one immeasurable progress ! The 
gate of mystery shall be past, and the full light shall 
shine for ever. Blessed change ! That w T hich caused 
us trial, shall yield us triumph. That which was the 
deeper darkness, shall be but the brighter light. That 
which made the heart ache, shall fill it with gladness. 
Tears shall be wioed away: and beamings of joy 
shall come in their place. He who tried the soul that 
he loved, shall more abundantly comfort the soul that 
he approves. That God, who has walked in the mys- 
terious way, with clouds and darkness around about 
him, will then appear as the great Revealer: and he 
will reveal what the eye hath not seen, nor the ear 
heard, nor the heart conceived. 

Let me insist, in close, as 1 did in the beginning, 
upon the necessity of this affectionate trust in God. 
We cannot live as reasonable beings upon any con- 
viction less lofty, less divine, less heartfelt than this. 
This is not a matter of will; it is a matter of necessity. 
Our minds cannot have a full and, at the same time, 
safe development; reflection and feeling cannot safely 
grow 7 in us, unless they are guided, relieved and sus- 
tained by the contemplations of piety. The fresh and 
unworn sensibility of youth may hold on for awhile, 
and may keep its fountain clear and bright ; but, by 
and bye, changes will come on ; affliction will lay its 

24* 



282 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



chastening hand upon us ; disappointment will settle, 
like a chilling damp, upon the spirits ; the mind will be 
discouraged, if there is nothing but earthly hope to 
cheer it on; the reasonings of misanthropy and the 
misgivings of scepticism will steal into it, and blight 
its generous affections; morbid sensitiveness will take 
the place of healthful feeling; all this will naturally 
come on, with the growing experience of life, if the 
love of God be not our support and safeguard. Every 
mind may not be conscious of this tendency, but every 
mind that thinks much and feels deeply, will be con- 
scious of it, and will feel it bitterly. Your body may 
live on; but your soul, in its full development, in its 
deep wants, in its " strong hour" of trial and of reflec- 
tion, must pine, and perish, and die, without this holy 
trust. Let it not so perish. Creature of God's love ! 
believe in that love which gave thee being. Believe 
in that love which every moment redeems thee from 
death, and offers to redeem thee from the death eternal. 
Believe in God's love, and be wise, be patient, be com- 
forted, be cheerful and happy— be happy in time ; bo 
happy in eternity ! 



283 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 

THE VOICES OF THE DEAD, 



HEBREWS 11. 4. And by it, he being dead, yet speaketh. 

This is a record of virtue that existed six thousand 
years ago; but which yet liveth in its memory, and 
speaketh in its example. "Abel, it is written, offered 
unto God a mere excellent sacrifice than Cain, by w T hich 
he obtained witness, that he was righteous, God testi- 
fying of his gifts ; and by it, he being dead, yet speak- 
eth." How enduring is the memorial of goodness! 
It is but a sentence, w T hich is read in a moment— it is 
but a leaf from the scroll of time ; and yet, it is borne 
on the breath of ages — it takes the attributes of univer- 
sality and eternity— it becomes a heritage, from family 
to family, among all the dwellings of the world. 

But it is not Abel alone, the accepted worshipper 
and martyred brother, that thus speaks to us. The 
world is filled with the voices of the dead. They speak 
not from the public records of the great world only, 
but from the private history of our own experience. 
They speak to us in a thousand remembrances, in a 
thousand incidents, events, associations. They speak 
to us, not only from their silent graves, but from the 
throng of life. Though they are invisible, yet life is 



284 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



filled with their presence. They are with us, by the 
silent fireside and in the secluded chamber: they are 
with us in the paths of society, and in the crowded 
assembly of men. They speak to us from the lonely 
w r ay-side; and they speak to us, from the venerable 
walls that echo to the steps of a multitude, and to the 
voice of prayer. Go where we will, the dead are with 
us. We live, we converse, with those, who once lived 
and conversed with us. Their w r ell remembered tone 
mingles with the whispering breezes, with the sound 
of the falling leaf, with the jubilee shout of the spring- 
time. The earth is filled with their shadowy train. 

But there are more substantial expressions of the 
presence of the dead with the living. The earth is 
filled with the labours, the works, of the dead. Al- 
most all the literature in the world, the discoveries 
of science, the glories of art, the ever-during temples, 
the dwelling-places of generations, the comforts and 
improvements of life, the languages, the maxims, the 
opinions, of the living, the very frame-work of society, 
the institutions of nations, the fabrics of empire— all 
are the works of the dead : by these, they who are dead 
yet speak. Life — busy, eager, craving, importunate, 
absorbing life — yet what is its sphere, compared with 
the empire of death! What, in other words, is the 
sphere of visible, compared with the mighty empire 
of invisible, life! A moment in time; a speck in im- 
mensity; a shadow amidst enduring and unchangeable 
realities; a breath of existence amidst the ages and 
regions of undying life ! They live — they live indeed, 
whom we call dead. They live in our thoughts ; they 
live in our blessings ; they live in our life : "death hath 
po power over them." 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



285 



Let us then meditate upon those — the mighty com- 
pany of our departed brethren — who occupy such a 
space in the universe of being. Let us meditate upon 
their relation, their message, their ministry, to us. Let 
us look upon ourselves in this relation, and see what 
we owe to the dead. Let us look upon the earth, and 
see if death hath not left behind its desolating career, 
some softer traces, some holier imprint, than of de- 
struction. 

I. What memories, then, have the dead left among 
us, to stimulate us to virtue, to win us to goodness. 

The approach to death often prepares the way for 
this impression. The effect of a last sickness to de- 
velope and perfect the virtues of our friends, is often 
so striking and beautiful, as to seem more than a com- 
pensation for all the sufferings of disease. It is the 
practice of the Catholic Church to bestow upon its 
eminent saints, a title to the perpetual homage of the 
faithful, in the act of canonization. But what is a for- 
mal decree, compared with the effect of a last sickness, 
to canonize the virtue that we love, for eternal re- 
membrance and admiration? How often does that 
touching decay, that gradual unclothing of the mortal 
body, seem to be a putting on of the garments of im- 
mortal beauty and life ! That pale cheek, that placid 
brow, that sweet serenity spread over the whole coun- 
tenance, that spiritual, almost supernatural brightness 
of the eye, as if light from another world already shone 
through it, that noble and touching disinterestedness of 
the parting spirit, which utters no complaint, which 
breathes no sigh, which speaks no word of fear nor 
apprehension to wound its friend — which is calm, and 
cheerful, and natural, and self-sustained, amidst daily 



286 



discourse xvm. 



declining strength and the sure approach to death — 
and then, at length, when concealment is no longer 
possible, that last firm, triumphant, consoling discourse, 
and that last look of all mortal tenderness and immor- 
tal trust; — what hallowed memories are these to 
soothe, to purify, to enrapture surviving love! 

Death, too, sets a seal upon the excellence, that 
sickness unfolds and consecrates. There is no living 
virtue, concerning which — such is our frailty — we 
must not fear that it may fall; or, at least, that it may 
somewhat fail from its steadfastness. It is a painful, 
it is a just fear, in the bosoms of the best and purest 
beings on earth, that some dreadful lapse may come 
over them, or over those whom they hold in the highest 
reverence. But death, fearful, mighty as its power, is 
yet a power, that is subject to virtue. It gives victory 
to virtue. It brings relief to the heart, from its pro- 
foundest fear. It enables us to say, "now all is safe! 
The battle is fought ; the victory is won. The course 
is finished; the race is run; the faith is kept: hence- 
forth, it is no more doubt nor danger, no more tempta- 
tion nor strife ; henceforth is the reward of the just, 
the crown which the Lord, the righteous Judge will 
give !" Yes, death — dark power of earth though it 
seem — does yet ensphere virtue, as it were, in heaven. 
It sets it up on high, for eternal admiration. It fixes 
its place never more to be changed — as a star to 
shine onward, and onward, through the depths of 
the everlasting ages! 

In life there are many things which interfere with a 
just estimate of the virtues of others. There are, in 
some cases, jealousies, and misconstructions, and there 
are false appearances ; there are veils upon the heart 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



287 



that hide its most secret workings and its sweetest 
affections from us ; there are earthly clouds that come 
between us and the excellence that we love. So that 
it is not, perhaps, till a friend is taken from us, that we 
entirely feel his value, and appreciate his worth. The 
vision is loveliest at its vanishing away; and we per- 
ceive not, perhaps, till we see the parting wing, that 
an angel has been with us. 

Yet if we are not, from any cause, or in any degree, 
blind to the excellence we possess, if we do feel all the 
value of the treasure which our affections hold dear ; 
yet, I say, how does that earthly excellence take not 
only a permanent, but a saintly character, as it passes 
beyond the bounds of mortal frailty and imperfection ! 
how does death enshrine it, for a homage, more reve- 
rential and holy, than is ever given to living worth! 
So that the virtues of the dead gain, perhaps, in the 
powder of sanctity, what they lose in the power of 
visible presence ; and thus — it may not be too much to 
say — thus the virtues of the dead benefit us some- 
times, as much as the examples of living goodness. 

How beautiful is the ministration, by which those 
who are dead, thus speak to us — thus help us, comfort 
us, guide, gladden, bless us ! How grateful must it be 
to their thoughts of us, to know that we thus remember 
them ; that we remember them, not with mere admi- 
ration, but in a manner that ministers to all our virtues ! 
What a glorious vision of the future, is it, to the good 
and pure who are yet living on earth, that the virtues 
which they are cherishing and manifesting, the good 
character which they are building up here,- — the charm 
of their benevolence and piety, shall live, when they 
have laid down the burthen and toil of life — shall be an 



288 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



inspiring breath to the fainting hearts that are broken 
from them — a wafted odour of sanctity to hundreds 
and thousands that shall come after them. Is it not 
so ? Are there not those, the simplest story, the frailest 
record of whose goodness, is still, and ever, doing 
good? But, frail records, we know full w T ell— frail 
records they are not, which are in our hearts. And 
can we have known those, whom it is a joy as well as 
a sorrow, to think of, and not be better for it? Are 
there those, — once, our friends, now bright angels, in 
some blessed sphere — and do we not sometimes say, 
"perhaps, that pure eye of affection is on me now; and 
I will do nothing to wound it?" No, surely, it cannot 
be, that the dead will speak to us in vain. Their 
memories are all around us: their footsteps are in our 
paths; the memorials of them meet our eye at every 
turn ; their presence is in our dwellings ; their voices 
are in our ears; they speak to us— in the sad reverie of 
contemplation, in the sharp pang of feeling, in the cold 
shadow of memory, in the bright light of hope — and it 
cannot be, that they will speak in vain. 

II. Nay, the very world we live in, — -is it not con- 
secrated to us by the memory of the dead ? Are not 
the very scenes of life made more interesting to us, by 
being connected with thoughts that run backward far 
beyond the range of present life. This is another 
view of the advantage and effect with which those 
who are " dead, yet speak to us/' 

If we were beings, to whom, present, immediate, 
instant enjoyment were every thing ; if we were ani- 
mals, in other words, with all our thoughts prone to 
the earth on which we tread, the case would be dif- 
ferent ; the conclusion would be different. But we 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



289 



are beings of a deeper nature, of wider relations, of 
higher aspirations, of a loftier destiny. And being 
such, I cannot hesitate to say for myself, that I would 
not have every thing which I behold on earth, the 
work of the present, living generation. The world 
would be comparatively, an ordinary, indifferent 
place, if it contained nothing but the workmanship, 
the handicraft, the devices of living men. No, I 
would see dwellings, which speak to me of other 
things, than earthly convenience, or fleeting pleasure ; 
which speak to me the holy recollections of lives 
which were passed in them, and have passed away 
from them. I would see temples in which successive 
generations of men have prayed. I would see ruins, 
on whose mighty walls is inscribed the touching stoiy 
of joy, and sorrow, love, heroism, patience, which 
lived there — there, breathed its first hope, its last sigh 
— ages ago. I would behold scenes, which offer 
more than fair landscape and living stream to my 
eye ; which tell me of inspired genius, glorious forti- 
tude, martyred faith, that studied there — suffered 
there — died there. I would behold the earth, in fine, 
when it is spread before me, as more than soil and 
scenery, rich and fair, though they be ; I would be- 
hold the earth as written over with histories ; as a 
sublime page, on which are recorded the lives of men, 
and empires. 

The world, even of nature, is not one laughing, gay 
scene. It is not so in fact ; it appears not so in the 
light of our sober, solemn, Christian teachings. The 
dark cloud sometimes overshadows it : the storm 
sweeps through its pleasant valleys ; the thunder 
smites its everlasting hills ; and the holy record hath 

25 



290 



discourse xvin. 



said, " thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee." 
It has been said that all the tones in nature are — to use 
the musical phrase — on the minor key. That is to 
say, they are plaintive tones. And although the fact 
is probably somewhat exaggerated, when stated so 
strongly and unqualifiedly, yet to a certain extent it 
is true. It is true, that that tone always mingles with 
the music of nature. In the winds that stir the moun- 
tain pine, as well as in the wailing storm ; in the soft- 
falling shower, and in the rustling of the autumn 
leaves ; in the roar of ocean, as it breaks upon the 
lonely sea-beach ; in the thundering cataract, that lifts 
up its eternal anthem amidst the voices of nature ; 
and so likewise, in those inarticulate interpretations 
of nature, the bleating of flocks, the lowing of herds, 
and even in the song of birds there is usually something 
plaintive ; something that touches the sad and brood- 
ing spirit of thought. And the contemplation of na- 
ture in all its forms, as well of beauty as of sublimity, is 
apt to be tinged with melancholy. And all the higher 
musings, the nobler aspirations of the mind, possess 
something of this character. I doubt if there were 
ever, a manifestation of genius in the world, that did 
not bear something of this trait. 

It can scarcely be the part of wisdom, then, to re- 
fuse to sympathize with this spirit of nature and hu- 
manity. And it can be no argument against a con- 
templation of this world, as having its abodes sancti- 
fied by the memory of the departed, as having its 
brightness softly veiled over by the shadow of death ; 
it can be no argument against such contemplation, 
that it is somewhat sober and sad. I feel then, that 
the dead have conferred a blessing upon me, in help- 



DISCOURSE XVIII, 



291 



ing me to think of the world thus rightly ; in thus 
giving a hue of sadness to the scenes of this world, 
while, at the same time, they have clothed it with 
every glorious and powerful charm of association. 
This mingled spirit of energy and humility, of triumph 
and tenderness, of glorying and sorrowing, is the very 
spirit of Christianity. It was the spirit of Jesus — the 
conqueror and the sufferer. Death was before him; 
and yet his thoughts were of triumph. Victory was 
in his view ; and yet, what a victory ! No laurel 
crown was upon his head ; no flush of pride was upon 
his brow ; no exultation flashed from his eye ; for his 
was a victory to be gained over death, and through 
death. No laurel crown sat upon his head — but a 
crown of thorns ; no flush of pride was on his brow- 
but meekness was enthroned there ; no exultation 
flashed from his eye— but tears flowed from it ; "Jesus 
wept." 

Come, then, to us, that spirit, at once, of courage 
and meekness ; of fortitude, and gentleness ; of a 
life hopeful and happy, but thoughtful of death; of a 
world bright and beautiful, but passing away ! So let 
us live, and act ; and think, and feel ; and let us thank 
the good providence, the good ordination of heaven, 
that has made the dead our teachers. 

III. But they teach us more. They not only leave 
their own enshrined and canonized virtues for us to 
love and imitate ; they not only gather about us the 
glorious and touching associations of the past, to hallow 
and dignify this world to us, and to throw the soft 
veil of memory over all its scenes ; but they open a 
future world to our vision, and invite us to its blessed 
abodes, 



292 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



They open that world to us, by giving, in their own 
deaths, a strong proof of its existence. 

The future, indeed, to mere earthly views, is often 
" a land of darkness as darkness itself, and of the 
shadow of death without any order, and where the 
light is as darkness." Truly, death is " without any 
order." There is in it, such a total disregard to cir- 
cumstances, as shows that it cannot be an ultimate 
event. That must be connected with something else ; 
that cannot be final, which, considered as final, puts 
all the calculations of wisdom, so utterly at defiance. 
The tribes of animals, the classes and species of the 
vegetable creation, come to their perfection, and then 
die. But is there any such order for human beings ? 
Do the generations of mankind go down to the grave, 
in ranks and processions ? Are the human, like the 
vegetable races, suffered to stand till they have made 
provision for their successors, before they depart? 
No ; without order, without discrimination, without 
provision for the future, or remedy for the past, the 
children of men depart. They die— the old, the 
young ; the most useless, and those most needed ; 
the worst and the best, alike die ; and if there be no 
scenes beyond this life, if there be no circumstances, 
nor allotments to explain the mystery, then all around 
us, is, as it was to the doubting spirit of Job, " a land 
of darkness as darkness itself," The blow falls, like 
the thunder-bolt beneath the dark cloud ; but it has 
not even the intention, the explanation, that belongs 
to that dread minister. The stroke of death must be 
more reckless than even the lightning's flash — yes, 
that solemn visitation that cometh with so many dread 
signs — the body's dissolution, the spirit's extremity, 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



293 



the winding up of the great scene of life, has not even 
the meaning that belongs to the blindest agents in 
nature, if there be no reaction, no revelation hereafter ! 
Can this be? Doth God take care for things animate 
and inanimate, and will he not care for us ? 

Let us look at it for a moment. I have seen one 
die — -the delight of his friends, the pride of his kin- 
dred, the hope of his country : but he died ! How 
beautiful was that offering upon the altar of death ! 
The fire of genius kindled in his eye ; the generous 
affections of youth mantled in his cheek ; his foot was 
upon the threshold of life ; his studies, his prepara- 
tions for honoured and useful life, w r ere completed ; 
his breast was filled with a thousand glowing, and 
noble, and never yet expressed aspirations : but he 
died ! He died ; while another, of a nature dull, 
coarse, and unrefined, of habits low, base, and bru- 
tish, of a promise that had nothing in it but shame 
and misery — such an one, I say, was suffered to 
encumber the earth. Could this be, if there were 
no other sphere for the gifted, the aspiring, and the 
approved, to act in ? Can we believe that the energy 
just trained for action, the embryo thought just burst- 
ing into expression, the deep and earnest passion of a 
noble nature, just swelling into the expansion of every 
beautiful virtue, should never manifest its power, 
should never speak, should never unfold itself? Can 
we believe that all this should die ; while meanness, 
corruption, sensuality, and every deformed and dis- 
honoured power, should live ? No, ye goodly and 
glorious ones ! ye godlike in youthful virtue ! — ye die 
not in vain : ye teach, ye assure us, that ye are gone 
to some w T orld of nobler life and action. 

25* 



294 



DISCOURSE xvin. 



I have seen one die ; she was beautiful ; and beau- 
tiful were the ministries of life that were given her to 
fulfil. Angelic loveliness enrobed her ; and a grace 
as if it were caught from heaven, breathed in every 
tone, hallowed every affection, shone in every action- 
invested, as a halo, her whole existence, and made it 
a light and blessing, a charm and a vision of glad- 
ness, to all around her : but she died ! Friendship, 
and love, and parental fondness, and infant weakness, 
stretched out their hand to save her ; but they could 
not save her : and she died ! What ! did all that love- 
liness die ? Is there no land of the blessed and the 
lovely ones, for such to live in ? Forbid it reason, 
religion ! — bereaved affection, and undying love ! for- 
bid the thought ! It cannot be that such die in God's 
counsehwho live even in frail human memory, forever i 

I have seen one die— in the maturity of every 
power, in the earthly perfection of every faculty ; 
when many temptations had been overcome, and 
many hard lessons had been learned ; when many 
experiments had made virtue easy, and had given a 
facility to action, and a success to endeavour ; when 
wisdom had been learnt from many mistakes, and a 
skill had been laboriously acquired in the use of many 
powers ; and the being, I looked upon, had just com- 
passed that most useful, most practical of all know- 
ledge, how to live, and to act well and wisely : yet I 
have seen such an one die ! Was all this treasure 
gained, only to be lost? Were all these faculties 
trained, only to be thrown into utter disuse ? Was 
this instrument — the intelligent soul, the noblest in the 
universe — was it so laboriously fashioned, and by the 
most varied and expensive apparatus, that, on tha 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



295 



very moment of being finished, it should be cast away 
forever ? No, the dead, as we call them, do not so die. 
They carry our thoughts to another and a nobler ex- 
istence. They teach us, and especially by all the 
strange and seemingly untoward circumstances of 
their departure from this life, that they, and w r e, shall 
live forever. They open the future world, then, to 
our faith. 

They open it also, and in fine, to our affections. 
No person of reflection and piety can have lived long, 
without beginning to find, in regard to the earthly ob- 
jects that most interest him — his friends— that the 
balance is gradually inclining in favour of another 
world. How many, after the middle period of life, 
and especially in declining years, must feel — if the 
experience of life has had any just effect upon them — • 
that the objects of their strongest attachment are not 
here. One by one, the ties of earthly affection are 
cut asunder ; one by one, friends, companions, chil- 
dren, parents, are taken from us ; for a time, perhaps, 
we are " in a strait betwixt two/' as was the apostle, 
not deciding altogether whether it is better to depart ; 
but shall we not, at length, say with the disciples, w 7 hen 
some dearer friend is taken, " let us go and die with 
him ?" 

The dead have not ceased their communication 
with us, though the visible chain is broken. If they 
are still the same, they must still think of us. As two 
friends on earth, may know that they love each other, 
without any expression, without even the sight of each 
other; as they may know though dwelling in differ^ 
ent and distant countries, without any visible chain of 
communication, that their thoughts meet and mingle 



296 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



together, so may it be with two friends of whom the 
one is on earth, and the other is in heaven. Espe- 
cially where there is such an union of pure minds that 
it is scarcely possible to conceive of separation ; that 
union seems to be a part of their very being ; we may 
believe that their friendship, their mutual sympathy, 
is beyond the power of the grave to break up. " But 
ah ! we say, if there were only, some manifestation ; 
if there were only a glimpse of that blessed land ; if 
there were, indeed, some messenger bird, such as is 
supposed in some countries to come from the spirit 
land, how eagerly should we question it!" In the 
w 7 ords of the poet, we should say, 

" But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain, 
Can those who have loved, forget ? 
We call — but they answer not again— 
Do they love, do they love us yet ? 
We call them far, through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave nor hill ; 
We know, we know, that their land is bright, 
But say, do they love there still?" 

The poetic doubt, we may answer with plain rea- 
soning, and plainer scripture. We may say, in the 
language of reason, if they live there, they love there. 
We may answer in the language of Jesus Christ, " he 
that liveth and belie veth in me, shall never die." And 
again ; " have ye not read," saith our Saviour, " that 
w r hich w r as spoken unto you by God, saying, 1 am the 
God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God 
of Jacob ? God is not the God of the dead, but of the 
living." Then is it true, that they live there ; and 
they yet speak to us. From that bright sphere, from 
that calm region, from the bowers of life immortal, 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



297 



they speak to us. They say to us, " sigh not in des- 
pair over the broken and defeated expectations of 
earth. Sorrow not as those who have no hope. 
Bear, calmly and cheerfully, thy lot. Brighten the 
chain of love, of sympathy — of communion with all 
pure minds, on earth, and in heaven. Think, Oh! 
think of the mighty and glorious company that fill 
the immortal regions. Light, life, beauty, beatitude, 
are here. Come, children of earth ! come to the 
bright and blessed land!" I see no lovely features, 
revealing themselves through the dim and shadowy 
veils of heaven. I see no angel forms enrobed with 
the bright clouds of eventide. But " I hear a voice, 
saying, write, blessed are the dead who die in the 
Lord, for they rest — for they rest, from their labours, 
and their works — works of piety and love recorded in 
our hearts and kept in eternal remembrance — their 
works do follow them." Our hearts — their workman- 
ship — do follow them. We will go and die with 
them. We will go, and live with them forever ! 

Can I leave these meditations, my brethren, with- 
out paying homage to that religion which has brought 
life and immortality to light; without calling to mind 
that simple and touching acknowledgment of the great 
apostle, I thank God through our Lord Jesus Christ." 
Ah! how desolate must be the affections of a people, that 
spurn this truth and trust ! I have wandered among the 
tombs of such a people ; I have wandered through 
that far-famed cemetery, that overlooks from its mourn- 
ful brow, the gay and crowded metropolis of France ; 
but among the many inscriptions upon those tombs, 
I read scarcely one — I read, — to state so striking a 
fact with numerical exactness — I read not more than 



298 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



four or five inscriptions in the whole Pere La Chaise, 
which made any consoling reference to a future life. 
I read, on those cold marble tombs, the lamentations 
of bereavement, in every affecting variety of phrase. 
On the tomb of youth, it was written that " its broken 
hearted parents, who spent their days in tears and 
their nights in anguish, had laid down here their trea- 
sure and their hope." On the proud mausoleum 
where friendship, companionship, love, had deposited 
their holy relicts, it was constantly written " Her hus- 
band inconsolable ;" " His disconsolate wife ;" " A 
brother left alone and unhappy" has raised this mon- 
ument ; but seldom, so seldom that scarcely ever, did 
the mournful record close with a word of hope — 
scarcely at all was it to be read amidst the marble 
silence of that world of the dead, that there is a life 
beyond ; and that surviving friends hope for a blessed 
meeting again, where death comes no more. 

Oh ! death ! — dark hour to hopeless unbelief! hour 
to which, in that creed of despair, no hour shall succeed ! 
being's last hour ! to whose appalling darkness, even 
the shadows of an avenging retribution were bright- 
ness and relief — death ! what art thou to the Chris- 
tian's assurance ? Great hour of answer to life's 
prayer — great hour that shall break asunder the bond 
of life's mystery — hour of release from life's burden — 
hour of reunion with the loved and lost — what mighty 
hopes, hasten to their fulfilment in thee ! What long- 
ings, what aspirations, — breathed in the still night, 
beneath the silent stars — what dread emotions of cu- 
riosity — what deep meditations of joy — what hallow- 
ed imaginings of never experienced purity and bliss — 
what possibilities shadowing forth unspeakable reali- 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



299 



ties to the soul, all verge to their consummation in 
thee ! Oh ! death ! the Christian's death ! what art 
thou, but the gate of life, the portal of heaven, the 
threshold of eternity ! 

Thanks be to God — let us say it, Christians ! in the 
comforting words of holy scripture — " thanks be to 
God who giveth us the victory, through our Lord 
Jesus Christ !" What hope can be so precious as the 
hope in him ? What emblems can speak to bereaved 
affection, or to dying frailty, like those emblems at 
once of suffering and triumph, which proclaim a cru- 
cified and risen Lord ; which proclaim that Jesus the 
Forerunner, has passed through death, to immortal 
life ? Well, that the great truth should be signalized 
and sealed upon our hearts in holy rites ! Well, that 
amidst mortal changes, and hasting to the tomb, we 
should from time to time, set up an altar, and say, 
" by this heaven-ordained token, do we know that we 
shall live forever !" God grant the fulfilment of this 
great hope— what matter all things beside? — God 
grant the fulfilment of this great hope, through Jesus 
Christ ! 



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